


The Thief, the Whore, the Witch, and the Strange Woman

by spinsterclaire



Series: For Imagine Claire and Jamie [6]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diana Gabaldon, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Outlander AU in which a 22 year old Claire Beauchamp Randall travels back in time on August 1st (Lughnasadh), 1941/1739. Ellen and Brian Fraser, both alive, offer her shelter in exchange for help in aiding Ellen's recovery. The growing attraction between Claire and Jamie leaves Claire torn, while suspicions arise regarding her past...Soon, it becomes clear that the Frasers know more than they let on.</p><p>[EDIT: 1000 points to your Hogwarts house if you can come up with a new title for this thing. Smh.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine Claire after going thru the stones wanders to Lallyboch where she is caught by Jamie stealing food/clothes, he takes her to Laird Brian for justice. Ellen alive.

**SCOTLAND - August 5, 1739**

Scruples, my husband had told me, were important to maintain. When confronted with the possibility of loss and defeat, devotion to a well-honed set of principles could very well be your only legacy. Who wants Cowardice standing guard over their grave? Or his friend, Dishonor, obscuring your name with weedy fingers? _No one_ , Frank had said two weeks into the war, _certainly not I and certainly not you_.

But my husband, I had come to find, was wrong about a lot of things.

There were his delusions about the weather, for one. Present circumstance had led me to discover that Scotland was not, in fact, “balmy” in the summer months, but still infuriatingly cold and wet.

Second: history, despite all preventative efforts, was doomed to repeat itself. This, too, was becoming more apparent as my days bled together, each one increasingly indistinguishable from the last.  I felt certain that in another 200 years, a Claire Beauchamp reincarnate would be wandering these same moors, cursing her husband for these same inaccuracies.

And scruples? Frank had been wrong about those most of all. For surely Death would not cower in the face of my personal ethics (presuming I had, in fact, called upon them for saving grace). All things considered, I would leave scruples to the saints and martyrs of the world. They had done a poor piss job at keeping _me_ warm, fed, and sheltered thus far.

Disoriented by both hunger and confusion, I had spent five days wandering the Scottish Highlands alone. Every valley and mountain seemed to bear the same paths, and I’d tread only circles into their mucky terrain. A steady mist had poured from the sky as if the clouds, too, could not break the cycle and mourned our hopelessness.

“Take your pity and bugger off,” I shouted, face raised to the grayness above. Exhausted, I collapsed to the ground and closed my eyes.

 _Cursing the sky now, are we?_ _Get a hold of yourself, Beauchamp._

But it was hard to gather my bearings when I had no idea where they—much less I—had gone. Nothing and everything looked familiar. Was I ten, thirty, or one hundred miles from Craig Na Dun by now? My sense of direction had failed me, and the wisdom I’d gleaned from a nomadic childhood had all but vanished. My knees wobbled, my hands shook, and my hair…

Dark, curling tentacles stood on end, reaching out to affectionately stroke the clouds. I had long since given up on taming them; at least one of us was enjoying the weather.

I had yet to encounter any signs of human life, but I knew all too well what I'd look like to passersby. If a hunter came crashing through the brush, he’d likely mistake me for some rabid beast.

“Or a land-bound Nessie,” I grumbled now, trudging through the mud.

Perhaps, I thought morbidly, he would even shoot me on the spot, realization dawning far too late as my human blood stained the earth and his hands. Would he try to save me then? I had heard harrowing tales about Highlanders from other nurses during the war. “Savage”, I seemed to recall, had been the preferred term when describing the Scots beyond the city. So there I would be: my life, balancing precariously in a savage’s palm—crushed or cradled by his scruples.

Given my predicament, even the possibility of death seemed more attractive than my immediate reality. I was freezing, wet, and bafflingly nowhere near modern civilization. My car had disappeared, and Inverness no longer twinkled in the night. My mind kept returning to the stones on Craig Na Dun and the ripping, shrieking mouth that had swallowed me up and spat me back out. However illogical, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were somehow responsible for my sore feet and head.

I shook the memory away, choosing instead to focus on more important things: food and shelter. My frazzled nerves would have to wait their turn.

Thinking myself sufficiently gorged on self-pity, I decided try a hand at tree moss navigation. After several minutes of aimless bumbling, a giant screen of firs gave way to an open plain. With branches and leaves clawing at my cheeks, I broke through the foliage and stumbled over a miscreant tree root. Too busy muttering expletives under my breath, I almost didn’t notice the funnel of smoke rising up ahead.

Just a mile away and tucked in a valley, breathed a crooked and white-stoned chimney. It extended, of course, from a small homestead whose glowing windows were an invitation in the waning light. Without a moment’s hesitation, I flew down the hillside, carried on the wings of a renewed sense of hope.

Plagued by fatigue and half-frozen limbs, I was forced to run, walk, and limp in turns. But at last, with the sun sunk and well behind me, I had drawn close enough to peer inside. Looking through the windows, I let out a soft and grateful breath.

A man, dark and tall, stood in the kitchen with a gun slung across his back. He looked too large for the room, wide shoulders straining against its walls. They were like boulders, firm and immovable, as if sprung directly from the home’s foundation. As with the rain and my aching body, it seemed that he had been there—and _would_ be there—in front of that same oven, and with that same gun, for all of time.            

A leaner boy stood beside him, though he was no less imposing for the difference in build. With his impressive stature and head of flaming hair, he looked the sort to have palms worn raw by the crack of a ruler. He held himself too proudly and used his hands too confidently to be anything but a schoolmaster’s worst nightmare.

This assumption was confirmed by a sudden break in the home’s pastoral stillness. Enraged by a comment I could not hear, the boy had swiveled on the older man, fists held high and mouth spewing soundless rage.

Flaming hair, indeed—and a temper to match, it seemed.

How would these men feel about an Englishwoman, barely clothed and half-deranged, coming into their home and pleading sanctuary? If their hostility was any indication, I thought they’d not take too kindly to a stranger asking favors and offering nothing in return. I had no possessions of my own save my rain-soaked shift, and what good would that do them?

Well, there _was_ always…

 _Scruples, Claire_. My husband’s voice echoed around me, and I felt suddenly homesick for his dusty tomes, his mislead optimism about Scottish summers.

But any regard for scruples vanished with the clap of distant thunder. A stripe of lightening revealed a pile of clothes to my right, sitting forgotten beneath the roof’s overhang. With one worried eye trained on the horizon, I estimated the miles between myself and the impending storm. Too close for comfort, as far as I was concerned.

Another moment’s deliberation, and I was pressed against the home’s exterior, hands on my prize and curly head out of sight. There were three shirts, a pair of trousers, and a coat. Though abandoned to the inclement weather, each had been folded into careful, neat squares. I thought absently of the boy through the walls—those precise, self-assured hands—and clutched the clothes to my chest.

I rubbed the coat against my face, relishing the feeling of its dry, raspy wool on my skin. While throwing it over my shoulders, three apples fell out of its pockets— _plop, plop, plop—_ like a one-note victory song. My heavy feet begged to dance, but my stomach had more pressing needs. The wind shrieked in warning, but of the brewing storm or of my actions, I couldn’t be sure.

I took a bite of the fruit. Even half-rotten it tasted like God, and I quickly finished the remaining half. Further rummaging turned up balls of matted fur (“ _Ick_!”), a knife, and a wooden snake. “SAWNY” this last item read, the word carved crudely into the hand-hewed wood. Dismissing the toy, I turned my attention to the weapon and its small but sharp blade. Clearly valuable, I felt certain that I could use it to barter with any nearby villagers—or defend myself from violent Highlanders.

 _Scruples be damned_ , I thought. Thievery seemed a far more effective method of survival.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, Beauchamp!” I cheered. Tucking the treasures back into the coat pockets, I let out several satisfied _whoops_ between mouthfuls of apple. I crouched down, planning to wait out the storm from my sheltered perch.

Beside me, a throat cleared, and a deep Scottish growl put an end to my celebrations.

“And just what exactly have ye done, woman?”

I stood, blood turned to ice, and came face to face with the red-haired boy I’d seen inside. My eyes fell instantly to his hands—unmarked by disciplinary punishment, I noted, though his cheeks were the color of the stolen fruit. I could think of nothing to say and so kept silent, watching the storm brew over his shoulders and in his eyes.

“A thief, are ye?” He appraised me like a horse, clearly recognizing the coat on my back as his own. Judging from his darkening expression, he was not particularly inclined to share it.

“Nay. A thief wouldna be so careless. A whore, then? Has yer madam banished ye?”

I remained speechless, a deer in the headlights.

 _“Une pute_? _Parlez-vous francais_?”

I started at the change of language. Having spent only a few months in France myself, I struggled to find the correct response in my wobbly French.

“ _Non_ ,” I replied, “ _Je ne suis pas une pute_.” I tightened my griparound the coat flaps, cocooning myself in its bulky-brown fabric. I was loath to relinquish my newfound warmth—even if it _were_ to its owner.

I reverted to my native English. “And not all whores are from France, you know.”

It was the boy’s turn to look surprised now, and he charged forward to grab hold of my arm. Even through the thick wool, I could feel his bones against mine, fingers and wrist grinding into one calciferous unit. I yelped.

“They’ve resorted to this then, aye? Sending their women to pillage our homes and leave us barren?” I didn’t know who “they” were, but I plainly gauged his low opinion of them. “Yer lucky I dinna care overmuch for this ugly coat. Or I would ha’ thrown ye to the ground and fought ye for it.”

He shook me free and I stumbled backwards. Even with the separation, my gaze remained bound by his, the pair of us connected and surrounded by a palpable electricity. Lightening blitzed through the night, painting his angular features in shadow and burning them into my memory forever.

Overcome by the reality of my situation—I was a lost and confused outlander, held at the mercy of this seemingly unscrupulous Highlander boy—I pulled out the stolen knife. Only the tip of its blade was visible in the light, but I felt a surge of gratitude for the darkness. I knew my unsteady hands would break any illusion of self-confidence.

“Plan to use my own blade against me, do ye?” He stepped forward again, bringing his nose just inches within my own. My face burned as his rage kindled mine, insides set to boiling.

“ _Stand down at once_!” I barked. I had heard commanding officers shout such things during campfire quarrels and had seen, too, men shamed into submission as a result. But my own opponent barely flinched in the face of my fury, still undaunted even, by the blade aimed at his gut.

In one stealthy maneuver, he had me twisted around, my back pressed to his front and knife point kissing my throat. “Easy now, woman. I could have ye skinned in a matter of seconds should I have the desire.”

“You _brute_!” I screamed, struggling against him. “Let go of me this instant!” I followed this with a stream of curse words, each of which seemed only to amuse my assailant further. He ignored me and laughed like the thunder.

“And what’s the meaning of all this then?”

The boy and I froze, our words, pinches, and punches suffocated beneath the gaze of our intruder. It was the man I’d seen in the kitchen, though he’d left his gun behind. Still, his lack of arms did nothing to calm the panic that rose inside me. Proximity had lent him an extra three inches, and he stood far taller now than he had when I’d last seen him. If he came closer, I would be lost in his shadow.

“Father,” the boy began. He withdrew the knife from my neck and thrust me forward, staying close behind. “It’s the English. I caught her stealing our clothes and food. As if they havena already taken enough.” 

This final remark was addressed solely to me, more an admonishment of my character than an explanation for his father. 

Infuriated by the accusations—however true they might be—I doubled my efforts for escape. I screeched and writhed, growled and hissed, but all to no avail. My captor would not be discouraged, and he gave my wrist an agonizing twist.

“ _Jamie_ ,” the boy’s father scolded, “how can I resolve this stramash if ye’ve killed the only other witness?”

Feeling somewhat supported in my defense, I regained my sense of confidence.

“So the brute has a name,” I spat, still recovering from the effects of Jamie’s attack. Vibrant with contempt, the boy released me at last and went to stand beside his father.

“Aye, he does,” he began, disturbingly calm. “But it remains to be seen if the _whore_ does as well?”

I opened my mouth to scream a denial but was silenced by an authoritative _Ist!_ Feeling suddenly foolish, I looked to the ground and shuffled awkwardly, foot to foot.

Father and son exchanged glances, and Jamie grudgingly surrendered the knife. The man studied it closely, as if reading the details of my crime in the blade’s reflective steel.

“So my son caught ye stealing, is that it?” Knowing this to be merely rhetorical, I kept my mouth shut and gaze averted.

“Stealing from the laird…” Jamie tsked, clearly enjoying the turn of events. “Rest assured ye’ll pay for it. What’ll it be, Father? The strap? An ear to the pillory?” He paused, reevaluating. “Ach, but that willna work. I dinna think we could find an ear to nail! Her hair is as big and wild as a— ”

“ _Bi sàmhach,_ ” his father chided. “I’ve no need for yer input.” But then I saw his mouth twitch at the corners, and he raised an amused brow at his son. “Although ye _would_ be an expert on such matters, aye? How many times have ye forced me to tan yer hide for yer foolish _sèabhas_?”

As Jamie stomped and griped, his father resumed his unnerving examination of my face. I felt myself, heart and conscience, flayed open to him and in wait of an almighty judgment.

“How old are ye?” he asked me then, soft but demanding. Reluctant to show any inclination towards compliance, I raised my chin and held it high.

“I don’t see how my age is relevant.” I narrowed my eyes, daring him to cross me, but this only provoked his growing ire.

“ _Ah_. Not old enough to ken yer place, I see,” he replied, looking between myself and his son. “Ye’ll guard yer tongue around me, lass. Now I’ll no’ ask again—how old are ye?”

Jamie piped in, sneering. “I’ll stake my life that she isna a lassie, Father. She’s old enough for the cell if ye ken my meaning.” He snickered.

The man rubbed a hand across his forehead.

“Yer givin’ me a fierce headache wi’ all yer haverin’, James Fraser. The last time I saw ye so riled by a lassie, it was wi’ young Rachel Forbes. And dinna think for a _second_ that I didna see ye two swallowing each other’s faces no’ but a week later!”

The man flung his arm out in my direction. “So _I’ll_ stake _my_ life that ye’ve taken a shine to our sassenach here, _a_ _bhalaich_.” He chuckled, muttering, “Ye damn peacock.”

At this, the sky opened. Thick, fat tears poured from the heavens, stinging my cheeks with sharp needle pricks. At the return of Jamie’s solid grip around me, I felt my fate sealed and doomed to imprisonment. I had barely heard the man shout, “Inside, the both of ye!” before I was being dragged through the front door and thrust into a chair.

Though dripping wet and shivering with the cold, I had no time to reflect upon the previous ten minutes. Immediately, they resumed my trial, demanding first that I return their belongings. Looking up at their scowling faces, I huffed and shrugged out of the coat.

“Will you be wanting the _apples_ too?” I asked, full belly mocking the suggestion with a satisfied rumble. But, of course, my sarcasm went ignored, as the pressing matter of my punishment weighed more heavily on their minds.

“Now, where were we?” the man asked instead.

“Rachel Forbes,” I retorted, looking pointedly at Jamie. I tried mentally plotting my escape but could see nothing by way of exits beyond my accusers’ bulk.

Suddenly, a voice came ringing down the corridor.

“Brian Robert David Fraser _,_ if you’ve mucked up my floors wi’ your filth, I’ll skelp ye senseless!”

Recognizing its womanly pitch, my spirits buoyed and my shoulders sagged with relief. Now clad in nothing by my shift, I hoped her female disposition might show me some sympathy.

But this small hope was crushed by the approaching footsteps, each one growing noticeably more agitated as they advanced in our direction. Finally, their owner came barreling around the corner, and I was confronted, once again, by a red-headed, angry giant.

“Have ye no respect for your ailing wife? Do ye mean to send me to an early grave, _a mhic an diabhoil_?”

As tall as her husband and colored like her son, I had a hard time believing this woman to be anything but in a state of robust health. Every movement implied a strength of body and character that would bow to neither illness nor death. Closer inspection, however, brought the pale, translucent complexion to my attention. Her face, while naturally angular like Jamie’s, was far too gaunt for a woman of her age. Her mouth, too, bore the marks of long-term stress, painted a lifeless white and bordered by deep, unforgiving grooves. Even so, there was no question that she was remarkably beautiful—but I knew, too, that I was seeing just a fraction of her true beauty.

Brian’s composure had faltered upon his wife’s arrival, and I watched as his face grew pained with the speaking of her name.

“Ellen, I’m sorry for it, _mo ghràidh_. But please, dinna fash yerself. I’ll clean things up once I’ve dealt wi’ matters here.” His words echoed with other silent pleas, but Ellen had no mind for obedience. She merely bent down to address me directly, woman to woman and eye to eye.

“And what matter would that be?”

“Jamie found this woman stealing food and his coat.”

“Is that so?” Ellen smiled, exposing a complete set of teeth—a rarity in Scotland, I’d come to find. For whatever reason, I liked her for it and hoped she’d recognize a kindred spirit beneath my shabby appearance. “And I suppose my men are giving ye grief over that ugly, auld thing?”

“ _Grief_?” Jamie exclaimed. “But Mam, she’s _English_! Ye ken well that we’ve no’ the means to be letting sassenach thieves take from us wi'out consequence!”

Ellen clucked her tongue, and sighed. “Oh, _mo ghille ruaidh_ , yer becoming more and more like your da every day.” She stood and whispered loudly into Jamie’s ear. “You must admit, _a chuisle,_ she’s a pretty thing, no? Much prettier than that empty-heided Rachel Forbes.”

“ _Ellen_ ,” Brian said again, exasperated now. “Please. Ye shouldna be up. Go lie down and sleep.”

Wanting her to stay, I practically leapt from my chair to prevent her from leaving. Though I was held captive in her home, I’d begun to develop a vague sense of admiration for the exuberant and irascible Ellen Fraser. Say what you would about the woman, but she clearly hadn’t let sickness dampen her spirits—and I respected that greatly. The key to my salvation, I thought, laid largely in her hands.

But I had no cause for worry. Ellen Fraser—even ill and outnumbered—would not be swayed.

“ _Gu leoir!_ Can’t ye see she’s no’ one to take orders from a man? She’ll not lie down at yer feet, no matter how many times ye beat her.”

I couldn’t help but hear the note of approval coloring her words. Brian, likewise, had a soft smile blooming across his face, the irony of the statement apparently lost on neither of them.

“Aye,” Brian agreed, “but the boy is right. I canna verra well let the lass go free.”

Everyone went quiet, mulling over the alternatives. Thinking this to be my only chance for rebuttal—commanding a room of squabbling giants is just short of impossible, after all—I pushed back my shoulders and raised my voice.

“I’m a nurse,” I announced. And when this did not stir them, I groped for a better explanation. “I—I’m good with medicines. Treating illnesses and disease.”

“A witch, more like,” Jamie huffed under his breath. I gave him the evil eye, and felt quite pleased when he shrank away from my gaze.

“A _healer_ ,” I insisted, turning back to address Ellen and Brian. “You’re sick, are you not?”

A small hiss slithered through Brian’s lips, and he pushed his wife behind him.

“Aye. She is. And what of it?”

I gulped. “I can help her. If you’ll allow me to examine her and get the proper supplies, I might even be able to _cure_ her. I—I’ve saved hundreds of people. It takes time, of course, but…” In my peripheral vision, I saw Jamie’s back go rigid.

“ _Cure her_?” Brian balked. “She’s been sick for nigh on fourteen months, and ye claim that you can _cure_ her?” He shook his head, refusing to even consider the notion. “First ye steal from my family. _Then_ ye come into our home, thinking you can—can—extort us? We may no' be as fancy as you English folk, but we arena daft."

“Brian—”

“Da!”

Both Ellen and Jamie had spoken at once, but her son’s intensity muffled her words. Though I felt slightly resentful of Jamie’s less than cordial treatment of me, my heart still broke at the pain now clouding his features.

“Father,” he began, calmer, “I dinna like the idea of it any more than you. But if the woman says she can cure her, maybe it wouldna do any harm to let her try?” I saw doubt wrangle with Jamie’s desperate need for hope, pulling his mouth into a grimace.

Wavering, Brian looked to his wife for disagreement. But Ellen Fraser—perhaps the bravest of us all—offered only an encouraging nod.

“Aye. So be it.” he relented. “Ye’ll examine her then, and we’ll give ye shelter for the night in return. You and Jamie can go to the village in the morning to find what ye need.”

I opened my mouth to express my gratitude but was hushed by a stern finger.

“ _Only_ for the night. Ye’ll set my wife on the path to healing and no more. I dinna want to see ye prancing about my kitchen two days from now.”

He turned to Ellen then, all business. “ _Mo luaidh_ , if ye’ll no’ listen to me and lie down, d’ye think you can find something for our guest to wear? Janet doesna need to see…” Brian inclined his head towards my wet shift, “ _that_.”

With gray eyes scrutinizing my backside, Ellen’s face suggested she thought this highly unlikely. I felt my cheeks flush, and fidgeted uncomfortably throughout her assessment. Finally, Ellen sighed.

“I suppose I could give ye one of my cousin’s hand-me-downs. It may be too small in the arse, mind, but it’s not every day a whore comes seeking clothes from Lady Broch Tuarach.” In spite of the jibe, her tone was playful and I felt instantly more at ease. She blinked an eye that, on all accounts, would be better described as a periocular spasm than a friendly wink. I smiled nonetheless, endeared by the strangeness of it.

Ellen whistled as she left the room, and the sound of her footfalls soon echoed from the stairwell.

“I best go to the kitchen and fetch ye some supper,” Brian said. “But listen carefully, lass…If I catch ye stickin’ your sassenach fingers in our wares again, ye’ll no’ see the light of day. D’ye understand me?

I nodded.

“Good. And Jamie—I’ve no’ forgotten about what happened earlier. We'll talk later.”

Jamie groaned and put his face in his hands.

Left alone together once more, the two of us were suddenly self-conscious without our insults and punches to hide behind. We listened to Brian’s dinner preparations, the rattling of pots and pans fueling our awkwardness.

I turned to face him, feeling the need to make amends.

“Looks like you’ll be accompanying me to the village tomorr—”

“If yer lying, lass,” Jamie interrupted, barely audible. “I will never forgive ye.”

The distress I’d seen earlier trickled through his words and left a worried line between his brows. Again, I found myself empathizing with my erstwhile assailant, for I knew what he must be feeling. Though I had been an orphan for nearly two decades now, the pain—or mere possibility—of losing a parent was not one easily forgotten. Some wounds took lifetimes to reach full healing.

Standing squarely in front of him, I held out my pinky. He pulled back, uncertain, and regarded my extended finger as if its touch alone could fell an army. I grinned and guided him gently along, straightening the smallest finger of his left hand to touch my own.

“Not a hoax,” I said. “A promise.” I laced my pinky with his and pulled tight. Though I came only his chest, I was not afraid to look up and meet his stare.

Now only half-wary, Jamie smirked.

“Yer a strange woman.”

“Claire,” I said without preamble. “The thief, the whore, the witch, and the strange woman are all called Claire.“

“You forgot the sassenach.”

“Her, too.”

Jamie repeated my name, rolling it around his tongue as if trying it on for size. “I dinna ken which of those things ye are…” And here he paused, stifling laughter. “Nay, that’s a lie. I’ve no doubt at all that yer a sassenach.”

I crossed my arms, indignant, but softened when Jamie’s tone turned serious.

“But I ken that my mother seems to trusts ye.” He bowed his head, placing one hand over his heart. “And so I give ye my trust as well. Witch or no, whore or no. Sassenach— _Claire_.”

“Thank you,” I replied, oddly grateful for the offering. “And I’m sorry for the apples. And the coat.”

Jamie waved dismissively. “ _Ach_ , it’s no matter.” He leaned down then, cat eyes gleaming. “But between you and me, it looks much better on me, hm?”

We both laughed, and I found myself warming to the tall, red-haired giant named James Fraser.

 _Scruples, Claire,_ I heard Frank’s whisper in my ear. Was it due to Jamie’s acknowledgement of my scruples? To his belief in my integrity? Or to the butterflies flapping in my stomach?

I had stolen from Jamie's family, yes, but then I had given them my confession, offered my recompense, and received their hospitality as a result. Perhaps my husband had been right, after all. Survival through honor and honesty? Not such an illogical method, it seemed.

“She’ll be ready for ye,” Jamie said, motioning towards the ceiling. “Dinna make her wait.”

“Right.”

As I climbed the stairs, I heard Jamie speak quietly behind me:

“I hope to have reason to thank ye one day, Sassenach.” He cleared his throat, and though I did not turn around, I could feel his eyes watching my back.

“Yes,” I said into the bedroom door, a minute later. “I hope so too.”


	2. Playing the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine Jamie teaching Claire how to play shinty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place about a week after Chapter One! I'm not certain that I'll write a fic about what happened between then and now, but it definitely isn't out of the question. Regardless, there is more to come! And to be revealed ;)

**SCOTLAND - August 12, 1739**

“I canna believe ye’ve never heard of shinty, Sassenach.”

Looking up at the overcast sky, I silently condemned the fates that had brought me here. The wind screamed a thousand jokes at my expense, each gust carrying the taunts of braying horses and grunting cattle. Considering, too, my general condition – exhausted, hungover, and hopelessly inexperienced – the next hour did not bode well for  _any_  of my alter egos. Certainly not the sassenach.

“Where I come from, we don’t beat each other with sticks for sport.”

Jamie shook his head and pointed at the hooked instrument in my hands.

“Not a stick, Sassenach—a  _caman_.”

Having never been an athlete, I was still confused as to how I’d wound up in possession of such a thing. But if my hazy memory served me correctly, alcohol and Ellen Fraser had been the surefire catalysts.

After a few rounds of whisky the previous evening—and a rather colorful debate on the physical abilities of the sexes—it seemed that I had volunteered to be the champion of my gender’s defense. The method of proving said defense had brought on yet another round of discussion, with suggestions thrown out by all parties. Some of these had seemed plausible—a game of cards, for instance—while others had been so downright ridiculous that the entire house had descended into madness. Belonging to this latter group of ideas had been a shinty match, proposed by none other than a smiling and gleeful Ellen Fraser.

“Shinty!” Jamie had hooted, grown hysterical with disbelief. “ _Shinty!_ ”

As equally amused by the notion, Brian had spluttered a mouthful of whisky. With a dribbling chin and stained shirtfront, he’d slammed a fist against the table.

“That seems hardly fair!” Jamie's friend, Ian, had joined in. “Women canna beat men at  _shinty_!” 

I, myself, had my own doubts. But Ellen and Jenny’s conviction had been so unwavering that I had merely sat by, watching my doom unfold.          

“Yer a damn fool, Ian Murray!” Jenny had hissed. “D’ye not recall me scoring three goals against ye this past spring?”

As the arguing and laughter escalated (Jamie: “ _A Dhia_! _Shinty_!”), I had become suddenly aware of two grey eyes turned in my direction. Sure enough, Ellen’s voice had risen above the din, and the room had quieted in short order.

“Perhaps we should ask the lass’ opinion, aye?” she said. “What d’ye say, Claire? Can ye beat a man in a match of shinty?”

Her eyes had been so incongruent with the sallow face that held them that, again, I could hardly believe her grievously ill. Sitting there in the firelight and holding a rapt audience in her hands, I thought Ellen would be far better suited to the challenge than I.

“Or can an English lady not hold her own outside the fancy wee parlors and dances?”

Jamie had erupted from his seat then, chair toppling to the floor in his excitement.

“Surely ye canna be talking of Claire, Mam! She may be a sassenach, but she isna an English  _lady_. Have ye seen her dancing?”

Jamie had hopped back and forth, moving his hands in what I recognized instantly as a poor execution of the jitterbug. He had snuck on me unawares the week before, peering through the doorway to find me “jitterbugging” out of sheer homesickness. Since then, I had thought twice about humming, singing, and dancing to the tunes of my own century. Regardless if I was being watched.

“As if you’re any better!” I had spat, joining in the charade and swaying with clumsy, sweeping hands. “You’re like a blind elephant!”

“And besides,” Brian interjected, “we dinna have enough people to make a team. Ye need twelve men for that alone.”

Emphasis, I noted, had been placed on the word “men”.

For whatever reason, our impassioned quarreling had only bolstered Ellen’s enthusiasm, and when I had at last drunkenly conceded, the matter had been settled. Given our shared inadequacies for dance and the competitive nature of our friendship, I would defend the female cause through a one-on-one shinty match the following day…against Jamie.

Needless to say, I had poured myself another generous portion of whisky. From then on the night became a bleary haze. I vaguely remembered some encouraging pats from Jenny and a toast later made in my honor. But I knew full well that the majority of my predicament could be ascribed to Ellen Fraser, whose confidence in my abilities was flattering, if not incredibly misplaced. I couldn’t remember the last time I had willingly played a sport, much less one that involved shoving, hitting, and rolling around in mud. Giddy with the alcohol, however, I had kept all this to myself and allowed my friends to believe I possessed a significant amount of athletic prowess.  _Of course,_ I would win.

The men had been absolutely tickled pink by idea. Brian, Ian, and Jamie had excitedly strategized by the fireside, whispering terms that, even sober, might as well have been Pig Latin to my ears. Beyond their planning, too, were their less than favorable predictions of the match’s outcome. Most of these involved me lying flat on my “arse” or capitulating before the game even began. Insults were thrown and curses were spat (all in good humor), and though I knew my chances of victory were slim, I went to bed fortified by liquid courage.

But this morning, of course, had been a different story.

When I woke to find Jamie standing over my bed, I had rolled over and groaned into my pillow. He was holding what I presumed were the instruments of the game—two sticks, I knew, that would likely have me bruised, battered, and beaten by the end of the day.

Regret had pounded against my temples like a drum.

“Having second thoughts, Sassenach? Has sleep finally brought ye to yer senses?”

“No!” I had huffed, sitting upright and throwing my blankets aside. Smiling as convincingly as I could, I had shooed Jamie away for a moment’s privacy. Dressed and as mentally prepared as I could be, I had flounced down the stairs fifteen minutes later. Forcing a spring into my step, I had hoped that a false cheeriness might imbibe my lunacy with a sense of confidence.

“Good morning, everyone!” I had chirped. “What a wonderful day for a shinty match!”

On my way out the door, I had heard Brian whisper to Ellen, “D’ye reckon she’s still drunk?”

“Aye,” Ellen had replied, snickering into her palm. “Perhaps she’s better suited to a drinking contest.”

~

It was this sequence of events that had brought me here, shivering in the midst of a very capable Scot and a very foreign game.

“Not a stick, Sassenach—a  _caman_.”

“ _Caman_ , baseball bat, or magic wand, it’s still a bloody stick, Jamie.” I caught my error too late, noticing my opponent’s eyes darken with confusion. I thought again of the jitterbug incident and made a promise to be more cautious in the future. Sooner or later, my behavior would not be so easily dismissed, and any hopes of returning to the 20th century would burn with me at the stake.

Used to my senseless rambling by now, Jamie merely scoffed.        

“Oh, of course,” he spat. “Yer folk ken all about toughness, aye? Prancing about in Red Riding’s cape. And her Grannie’s wig, no less!”

I knew this was supposed to insult me, but even I couldn’t keep a straight face at the image of grown 18th century men, wielding their broadswords in such hilariously flamboyant costumes. I smiled.

This was how much of our conversations had passed throughout my stay, which had far surpassed the original two-day agreement. Our growing fondness for one another had laid hidden behind an endless barrage of verbal attacks and parries. In fact, we rarely went a day without some kind of infantile argument, though our intentions were never malicious. By now, Jamie and I had become familiar with each other’s rules and limits—and the lengths to which we could bend them. What resulted was a kind of schoolyard bullying that left our egos only mildly bruised and us, more often than not, doubled-over with laughter.

“Like that one, do ye?”

“Yes,” I giggled. “Mind if I file that one away for future use?”

Proud of himself, Jamie spun his  _caman_  in several 360 degree loops. “So long as ye give me credit, Sassenach. Let’s go.” 

Jamie ran out to the middle of field, two crude goal posts set equidistance on either side. I waddled rather lamely in his wake, falling flat on my face when my feet found a patch of shoe-sucking mud. My countrymen’s choice of battle attire might be frivolous, but I thought it a hell of a lot more practical than my current ensemble. Much to the amusement of my caretakers, I had yet to learn how to walk, much less  _run,_ in corset, bum roll, and dress. The twenty yards from the goal post to center field would likely pose their own separate challenges, and I hoped spectators would be kept to a minimum.

“You really are an English rose,” Jamie joked.

Hobbling into place beside him _,_ I jabbed the  _caman_  into his knee. He howled, though I knew the display was more for my sake than any pain he actually felt. He barely budged, wood meeting a thick and immovable layer of muscle.  _Bastard._

“Watch yourself, lad,” I warned, “I might aim higher next time.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Jamie laughed.        

“Yer a scrappy wee thing, Sassenach. We’ll make a Scot of you yet.”

**~**

The game was fairly simple when it came down to it. Take the stick, hit the ball, and aim for the goal. No hands allowed—save for the goalkeepers’, whose assistance I was sadly without. No hacking; no dangerous or unsportsmanlike behavior. I’d never seen a shinty match, but I had the distinct feeling that Scotsman were not the most stringent of rule-followers. Still, I hoped our lack of teammates would work in my favor and spare me from additional kicks, jabs, and tackles. One opponent was enough.

But as Jamie and I ran through multiple practice rounds—me, hitting the ball; Jamie, anticipating every maneuver—I found myself still tumbling front over backwards. Aside from my obvious lack of skill, my clothing was proving more troublesome than even I had predicted. I couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t gain the right footing as Jamie swooped, spun, and swerved around me to victory. By the top of the next hour, I hadn’t scored a single goal, and showed no promise of scoring any in the future, either.

“That had to have been a foul!” I cried as Jamie jogged back to center field. I held up my scuffed and bleeding elbows. “Look! You’ve drawn blood!”

“What is it ye once called me? ‘A brute’?” He shook his head. “Have ye no' known a brute before? We rarely play fair.”

“Then what’s the  _point_?”

“The point,” Jamie began, nose almost touching mine, “is to  _win_.”

I looked to the ground, pondering surrender. But no matter how many excuses I offered, I knew none would buy my freedom, or save me from Ellen and Jenny’s indefinite scorn, should I quit.

“Well, I can’t wear  _this_  and have any hopes of winning!” I said, grabbing a fistful of my skirt. “Or is that all part of your strategy?”

“Sassenach,” Jamie replied, peering down at me, “I dinna give a damn what ye wear. Ye could prance about naked for all that matters.”

Shamed by the images in my mind—the two of us, stark naked and wrestling on the Scottish hillsides—I blushed profusely.

“Another time for that maybe,” Jamie said, perceptive as always of my discomfort. “But ye’ll lose. Then  _and_  today. Ye canna beat a man at his own game, trousers or no.”

“Shall we place our own bets on it then?”

“Have ye anything of interest to offer me?”

Ignoring his eyes, which, swearing to King and Country, could penetrate even my multi-layered clothing, I raised an obstinate brow.

“Since when is the joy of beating the English not enough for you?”

“It’s more than enough, Sassenach. Just to see ye proven wrong would be enough to carry me to my grave.” He paused, considering. “But I’ll throw in two shilling to make things more interesting. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said. “Sudden Death. First goal wins.”

Jamie was skeptical of this last condition, but a second look at my dirt-smeared face and heaving chest finally brought him to his senses. I wouldn’t survive another hour’s worth of play, and he bloody well knew it. We shook hands.

I began hobbling my way through the sludgy grass, armed with instructions to ask Jenny for a pair of Jamie’s old trousers (“You’ll look terrible in them, Sassenach, but yer arse _might_ fit.” A common theme among myself and Fraser clothing, it seemed.). Drenched in mud and a film of sweat, I finally reached the house. Upon stepping through the threshold and into the kitchen, an idea suddenly came to me. Inspired, I whipped around and called from the open doorway.

“The coat, too!”

The coat had been a matter of lighthearted contention since our first encounter. I knew Jamie would appreciate the wager—and, more importantly, that it would be useful for my imminent escape. Given the unpredictable Scottish weather, I would need some form of warmth if I was to make the lengthy trek back to the stones. The extra two shillings wouldn’t hurt, either.

“What?” Jamie yelled, half distracted.

During my arduous slog from field to house, Jamie had dirtied himself so thoroughly that the white of his legs now gleamed a muddy brown. Again, I was startled to find myself warming to his effortless savagery. What I had once regarded as despicable behavior had over the course of seven days become something oddly—and damnably—charming.            

“Put the ‘ugly, auld coat’ on the table, too!” I shouted.

Even from my distance, I could hear that deep Scottish guffaw.

“Aye, Sassenach! Have it your way! But if I win, ye can still keep the coat!”

**~**

“What’s the matter, Sassenach? I thought ye were used to lying flat on yer back.”

“ _Funny_ ,” I spat. “I suppose consistent poor performance doesn’t ever  _soften_  the blow. Are you always such a sore loser?”

As the two of us lay gasping on the ground, Ian came rushing over with the winner’s wages in hand. He stood above us, blocking the sunlight, and I saw the admiring smile dimpling his cheeks.

“Two shillings and a—” Ian eyed the coat as if it were ridden with disease, “a very fine coat. For the lady.” Again, I was touched by the extent of his awe, having assumed my unprecedented victory would be received with sour glances and accusations of cheating. But even Brian had been supportive, and I could hear Jenny and Ellen chanting my name from the sidelines. Only Jamie had met my expectations, quite visibly disgruntled by the fact that I, by some miracle, had scored the first goal.

“Thank you, Ian,” I demurred, taking his outstretched hand to help myself up. Equanimity restored, I turned back to my opponent, still lying in a tizzy of injured pride.

I shuffled the coins in my palm and settled comfortably into my old, woolen friend. Memories of its discovery floated suddenly before my eyes: lying folded beneath the eaves of the roof, both a risk and an opportunity. But where before I had smelled only the scent of rain and lye soap, I could now detect the faint odors of its owner. Sweat and hay, wood smoke and horses. _Jamie._

“A fine coat and two shillings, eh?” I boasted with a smirk. “Looks like I won’t  _have_  to lie flat on my back anymore. I’m practically a queen now!” I blew Jamie a playful kiss. “Do stop by though, if you need something to boost your spirits. I’m a charitable person, after all.”

Beside me, Ian blushed and his eyes darted everywhere but at myself and his surly friend. This was not an unusual occurrence when it came to being in our company. Ian seemed perpetually embarrassed by our juvenile bickering and often kept a mindful distance from Jamie and me.

“I dinna need yer charity!” Jamie huffed, ripping himself from the ground and patting the dirt from his clothes.

Though the loser of our match, it was no secret that Jamie still held the upper hand in face-to-face confrontation. He towered a good foot above me and regarded my smug expression with a twinkle in his eye. Undoubtedly the portent of a well-considered insult, I braced myself for the coming slap. Drunk on my own glory, I would let him take it.

“Ye dinna need to joke about such matters, Your Highness,” Jamie teased. “I ken well that ye want me in your bed. All ye have to do is say so.”

He strode arrogantly away, turning a deaf ear to my angry protestations. Looking at Ian, I noticed that his blush had subsided, and that the same gleam in Jamie’s eyes now shone in his.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just remind me to keep my secrets from ye, Claire.”

Before I had time to puzzle his meaning, Jenny was pulling me hurriedly along, eager for our post-victory celebration of roast pig and ale. Her mother floated behind us, that same pair of curious eyes following my every movement. While I glowed beneath Jenny’s praise, I worried over this newfound tension between myself and Ellen.

Satisfied with the promise that I’d join her soon, Jenny sprinted ahead to accompany Ian back inside. Ellen and I lagged behind in companionable silence, the only sound our squelching boots and Jenny’s distant heckling.

Finally, she spoke.

“When Jamie tackled ye…” she began, “Earlier, ye ken? You said something verra strange to me, Claire.”

My stomach dropped. In the throes of my anger, had I grown careless and dug my own grave? Feeling nauseous, I feigned innocence and shrugged.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” But I did, of course— _Jesus H Roosevelt Christ._ Not the most incriminating of terms but one that would reasonably ruffle the feathers of an 18th century woman.

I quickened my pace as we neared the house, wanting nothing more than to remove myself from what could potentially be my swift and definitive end. Ellen matched me stride for stride, resolute in her persistence.

“No?”

I gulped. Could she hear my heart hammering against my chest, beating the march to its own bloody funeral? My week at Lallybroch had yet to give me any evidence as to whether Ellen Fraser could, in fact, read minds. Regardless, I knew my imagination hadn’t conjured up the suspicion in her voice.

“I ken Jesus well, lass. But Roosevelt? I’ve no’ heard that name before.”

Floundering, I walked even faster. Only a few feet further, I thought, and I would be safe in the presence of my other, less vigilant friends. Any inquiries into my strange vocabulary would be lost amid a flurry of cheering, eating, and drinking—and, with hope, forgotten by nightfall.

“It’s—it’s English thing,” I stammered.

“Aye,  _an English thing_.”

Ellen halted before the entrance and studied my face. Unable to meet her eyes, I opened the door and motioned her inside.

“Careful now,  _mo charaid_ ,” she whispered and walked past me into the house.


	3. Starry-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the news of stormy weather, Claire and Jamie must go to Cranesmuir to stock up before the snowfall. On their way, they learn more about each other and the feelings they've kept hidden.

**SCOTLAND - November 30, 1739**

My days at Lallybroch passed without much ceremony. Summer yawned into fall, and soon November had buried itself at the foot of our beds. The trees stood like skeletons, sparse phalanges twisting gruesomely towards the sky. The air had turned colder too, and the frequency of my village errands grew less and less as winter approached with fleet-footed steps.

It was the Frasers’ shared responsibility to keep me in line and in their sight. Rain and sleet aside, I knew their constant vigilance would waylay any attempts for escape. Feeling hopeless, I’d had no choice  but to resign to my 18th century existence and postpone my return until I could find a means of distraction. Or better weather, at least.

Not that I minded life at Lallybroch. In fact, I rather enjoyed the slowness of it. In my own time, the days had been marked by the sounds of chaos: air raid sirens, the wails of wounded men. Now I was lulled into a peaceful wakefulness, the caw of crows echoing through the dawn.

There were still obstacles here, but I cherished this more spectral presence of war. It would be years before Stuart sympathies gained any significant traction throughout the  Highlands. The failure of the ‘15 still lingered, shroud-like, around those old enough to remember it, and so most Jacobite sentiments remained subdued.

I fell into the Frasers’ easy rhythm, lending a hand where I could and offering medical advice where it was needed. Ellen’s condition had worsened since August. Though she approached each day with her typical zeal, I could tell the effort preyed on her. Her movements grew sluggish, her breathing erratic. Protrusions of collarbone and vertebrae sharpened her to a razor’s edge and whittled away what hopes I had for an imminent recovery. Ellen had become winter itself, beautiful in the way only dying things can be.

But no, I thought. Ellen Fraser was _not_ going to die on my watch. I kept careful record of her health, measuring her vital signs morning and night so that regressions were not overlooked. I sought advice from the local apothecary, reading him my notes and taking new ones as he digressed on this or that medicinal root. Mostly, he spewed utter nonsense, but there was the occasional tidbit I would scribble into the margins. _Gallberries, substitute fever-reducer._

Though I had no grounds for proper diagnosis, I was almost sure Ellen could be cured. Feverish nights were followed by bone-rattling chills, and a prodding of her abdomen revealed a swollen spleen. The episodic nature of these symptoms bore some resemblance to malaria, a treatable—though persistent—illness. But then that begged the question: who but me had traveled beyond the immediate area? Exposure to an African mosquito disease seemed unlikely in the remote reaches of Broch Mordha, and so I continued to seek answers elsewhere.

Whether Brian thought Ellen’s decline the result of my inexpertise or just ill luck, he showed no sign of turning me out. Rather, he allowed me to come and go as I pleased—albeit, shadowed at every turn—and revive Lallybroch’s neglected garden. I took these small liberties as reflections of his growing trust. I had, I thought, found something of a home within those white-stoned walls and that patch of dirt.

Ellen’s sickness remained a mystery, but not all my cases were so elusive. When seasonal contagion attacked the Fraser household, I ground, brewed, and stirred the way to their collective healing. By some miracle of biology, I was immune to the strains of 18th century illness. This alarmed my hosts who, despite their familial sturdiness, found themselves with chronic phelmgy throats and runny noses. Jenny eyed me warily, no doubt thinking this some sign of my inherent “otherness," but accepted my tonics without much fuss. There was more resistance from the others, but so far I had been able to restore them all back to good health. Brian and Jenny were at their usual routines again while Jamie had regained his strength despite a lingering cough.

It was on one dreary morning that Brian returned from his chores, bearing news of an impending storm.

“Snow in four days’ time,” he announced.

He began to tidy himself in the foyer, thwacking his muddy boots against the door frame. The impact dislodged wet goop from his soles. It fell to the floor, an oddly-appropriate metaphor of the forecast:

“The roads will be impassible. We’ll be shut in when the storm comes.”

Just how he’d come by this bit of meteorological intelligence, I had no idea. Knowing the Scots’ superstitious relationship with nature, however, I wasn’t about to quibble with his methods. A snow storm would not only interfere with Lallybroch’s daily activities but affect my own practice as well. I took a mental inventory of my personal stock: What was on hand. What was in short supply?

The laudanum would need replenishing, I knew, due to Jenny’s generosity with the dosages. Another town for that, though—I had depleted the nearest apothecary just days before. The new shipment was not expected for another month, the clerk had told me, but even _that_ was an optimistic estimation given our location. As laudanum was the best relief for Ellen’s more fitful spells, I would need to go elsewhere, and soon.

I was lacking in other areas, too. Should my housemates relapse during the blizzard, I would have only camphor and goose grease to treat them. Neither of which would be received kindly by my patients—particularly their olfactory senses. If we truly found ourselves trapped indoors, fresh air would be scarce in the home’s fug of illness and peat-smoke, and we'd likely suffocate from the fumes.

Looking at the sky, I thought I could manage one last trip before the snowfall. The day seemed no more ominous than the ones preceding it, though I supposed the wind had picked up in speed and bite. The tip of Brian’s nose shone bright red, and I thought wistfully of the Christmas tales of my own century. A rosied and cherubic Father Christmas. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, leading him through the snowy night. I hoped I wouldn’t need such guidance on my own journey.

Brian began examining the kitchen, accounting for its deficiencies.  

“I’ll need to buy a few things, then,” I said.

Brian’s teeth were sunk into his bottom lip, and he growled in frustration at some apparent inadequacy. He ran a hand over his face, dragging the skin into a reproduction of Munch’s Scream.

“Ellen will need them,” I pressed on. “Her fever has been high lately.”

His wife’s name deepened the lines around his eyes and finally brought them to me.

“Aye,” Brian agreed, “and we’ll need a few other things as well.” He motioned to the sacks of grain and flour, both lying dishearteningly limp beside the stove.

“Everyone will be scrambling arse over backwards to make ends meet before the storm. Brocha Mordha’s stores will be empty by morning.”

“Don’t you get some precedence as laird? A ‘Pass Go and Collect $200’ sort of thing?”

Brian laughed without humor and turned back to the cabinets. My cultural slip went unnoticed as he occupied himself with the measuring of jars, bottles, and bags once more.

“Nay,” he said eventually, “it’s the laird’s duty to put his people first. This year hasna been kind to anyone, but we’ve fared better than most. I’ll no’ trouble my people when they’ve nothing for themselves.”

 _But take from another struggling town instead?_ I wondered. Though of questionable logic, this plan aligned with my own goals at least. I recalled a name I’d heard in passing: Cranesmuir. One of my patients had mentioned it during an examination, insisting that the prescribed four days’ bedrest would conflict with her upcoming trip.

“I’ve an appointment wi’ a…nurse, ye see. In Cranesmuir," Mary Hughes had stammed, hands twitching across her stomach. "It’s one of—of a delicate nature. I canna miss it for a puir common cold!”

An arrangement with a self-professed “witch”, more like. Even sickness could not hide the signs of Mary’s more obscure condition—a blooming pregnancy. And an unwanted one at that, given she wore no wedding band and regarded her littlest siblings with unconcealed horror. The selling of abortifacients was a profitable trade in these times, and I had encountered a number of women in similar circumstances since August. While said arrangements didn’t bode well for their unborn children, it _did_ imply that there was someone in Cranesmuir in league with my business. Anyone offering that sort of service—whether they claimed to have dealings with the Devil or not—would surely have medicines in ample supply.

“Mmm,” Brian mused, considering my suggestion. “Cranesmuir is a day’s ride, but none so difficult if ye ken the shortcuts. Ye’ll have to leave today, mind, if ye dinna want to be caught in the storm.”

Satisfied, I ate my breakfast with uncustomary aplomb. My daily serving of parritch had lost its novelty, but now I shoveled spoonfuls of the hardened muck into my mouth. After setting the empty bowl aside, I grabbed my satchel and slung it over my shoulder.

A beaten atrocity, I had purchased the thing for its bottomless capacity. It was spacious enough to hold an impressive amount of food and clothes—a necessity, I thought, if I truly planned to run away. Unfortunately, certain obstacles had precluded its use for this purpose, and the bag had merely become a trove of treasures. Now it housed whatever random miscellany I wanted keep under guard. There were stolen maps, poisonous medicines, private notes, and—

“Ye mean to say ye wear that wee… _thing_ over yer breasts? Like so?”

Jenny had balked at the lace tucked among my belongings. She had held up my brassiere, eyed it critically, and looked to me for confirmation. “Weel, it certainly wouldna support _me._ Do the men like this bit o’ frilly nonsense then?”

I had brushed the minor slight aside—I wasn’t flat-chested but neither did I possess Jenny’s more voluptuous assets—and snatched the underthing away.

“Yes,” I had replied with some acerbity. “Generally speaking, they _do_ find it attractive.”

Frank had come to mind then. His fingers working the butterfly clasps, his tongue brushing the straps from my shoulders. Unnerved, I had stuffed the brassiere back inside and pushed the bag under my bed.

“We’ll leave in an hour then?” I asked Brian now, “It shouldn’t take me long to pack.”  

“Not I,” Brian replied. “I’ve matters here that canna go unattended. Jamie will go wi’ ye. Jenny will see to Ellen while yer gone.”

I didn’t doubt Jenny’s ability to care for her mother in my stead. I did, however, have some qualms about Jamie accompanying me on the journey. We had become closer in recent weeks, lunching together at the stables or practicing quick rounds of shinty. But this closeness had taken a sudden and unfavorable turn—in my eyes, anyways.

I was Frank’s wife, pledged and bound to him and him alone. I didn’t know if the vows of matrimony accounted for transcentury couples, but my relationship with Jamie still made me feel disloyal. His Viking stare followed me everywhere, and I blushed like a schoolgirl beneath its gaze. At some point, the ties of our friendship had been severed, and mended again with the threads of...Well, I wasn't entirely sure. I fell asleep to thoughts of him and would wake in the night, my body still alive with his phantom touch.

Beyond the tectonic shift between us, I feared what the journey would do to Jamie’s health. He still coughed his way through his fence repairs and stall-mucking.

“Jamie’s hardly well enough to travel!” I cried, “Just—just draw me a map of some sort. I’ll manage well enough by myself.”

“ _Manage_?” Brian scoffed. “‘ _Manage’_ , she says! D’ye hear yerself, lass? Just yesterday you couldna find yer way home from auld Aillig’s cottage! How d’ye think ye’d ‘ _manage’_ walking to Cranesmuir by your lonesome?”

I wanted to protest, but another firm voice rose over my shoulder.  

“You’ll go wi’ Jamie, Claire,” Ellen said, coming to stand behind me. “He’s suffered worse than a wee hike wi’ a dry throat. He willna give ye grief.”

I thought ‘wee hike’ and ‘dry throat’ were rather gross misrepresentations of the situation, but I had learned to keep my mouth shut when outnumbered by Frasers. _Especially_ when it came to the subjects of strength and virility.

“And besides,” Ellen continued, “I’m assuming there’s bartering to be done?”

Brian nodded, though Ellen showed no concern for this proof of their dwindling stores. She clapped her hands together and smiled.

“Why, it’s settled then! Jamie will go wi’ ye to Cransemuir and assist ye in the bartering. You drive a hard bargain, Claire, but yer a _sassenach_ wi’ a pretty face. The lassies will rob ye blind, thinking ye’ve no brain to match the beauty. And the men…”

“The men will want to swive ye on the spot.”

I whipped around and saw Jamie, flushed after a morning spent with the cattle. His shirt was stained, his skin streaked with the evidence of his labors. In fact, he looked like one of the shaggy beasts himself, red hair askew and flopping before his eyes. With the ease of one oblivious to his charms, he stretched slowly and stripped off his shirt. He threw it on the table, vibrating with such heat that the cold did not seem to reach him.

I had seen Jamie like this before, of course—doctoring left no room for modesty. But even so, a fire suddenly burned through me. The juxtaposition of Jamie’s parents and the sight of his muscled, sweat-slick chest made me feel unbearably embarrassed. And suddenly far too hot. My cheeks sparked into flame and I stared at my feet.

“Mind, they’ll no’ want to swive ye because yer bonnie _or_ because yer English,” Jamie continued, taking careful steps towards me. “They’ll want ye simply because yer a woman.”

I looked everywhere but him.

“Mmm, how charming. Are all men so undiscriminating?”

“Only the ones that dinna ken what they truly want.”

Brian coughed awkwardly. Ellen, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying the spectacle more than I thought a mother should. She voiced her Scottish approval with a low hum and beckoned to her husband.

“Come, _a ghràidh_. Ye’ve made a mess of the foyer. You may stink like a horse, but that doesna mean my house is a barn!”

Grateful for the diversion, Brian strode past her into the hall.

“Ye’ll do as we say, Claire,” Ellen whispered softly. “Bonnie face, woman, or _sassenach—_ it doesna change the truth of things. It isna safe for someone like you out there, _a nighean_.”

If my appearance, gender, and Englishness were irrelevant, what could Ellen mean? I searched for clues in her face, but she turned and left without a word.

“She’s right, Sassenach” Jamie smirked. “I’m coming with ye, whether ye like it or no. But first...what d’ye have in that bag of yours? I’ve a wee cut that needs tending.”

**~**

“Just sit _still_ , you—you bloody Scot!”

“Over my dead corpse will ye touch me wi’ that Satan’s piss!”

“You’ll be _dead_ soon enough if you don’t cooperate, James Fraser! Hold _still_ , I said!”

As feared, Jamie’s condition had not improved with exposure to the wintry elements. Come evenfall, he could barely sit astride his mount for the violence of his coughing. My promise of food had gotten him off his horse, but only blunt force would make him listen to my other suggestions.  

Out of context, our wrestling could rightly be mistaken for something else. I was straddling a writhing Jamie, my thighs wrapped tightly around his waist to enforce compliance. I flung a hand over his eyes, hoping to stun him into blindness. He flailed desperately, found my hair, and ripped a bundle of curls from their roots. I screamed and tried to cover his mouth, but a bear-sized paw swallowed my wrist mid-reach.

“Will…ye…not…stop, woman!” he grunted. “I dinna want to be basted in yer foul-smelling, evil-doing shite!”

“It’s not ‘shite’, it’s—”

 _Bird lard_ , I had planned to say, but I stopped and reconsidered. Depending on one’s definition of the term, it very well _could_ be considered a form of “shite”. My weapon of choice was goose fat—to be mixed with camphor, of course—and smelled as one might expect. The two compounds combined were enough to cause a bloody nose or a roiling gut. “Bird lard” seemed an even more unsavory description, and so I groped for something less distasteful. “It’s _medicinal_!”

“ _Medicinal_?” Jamie shrieked, “Medicinal, my arse! Never tell jokes for a living, Sassenach. Ye’ll no’ make a cent!”  

I tried to maneuver out of his grasp, but no amount of twisting could weaken his vice-like grip.

“You don’t exactly smell like roses, you know! Goose grease and camphor would hardly be a degradation to your _natural_ cologne.”

“ _Camphor_?! Ye mean to coat me in the blood of demons?”

He released me suddenly and drove a fist into my stomach. My body slackened with the assault, and he took my moment of vulnerability to crawl away.

“That’s _ichor_ , you numpty! Camphor is nothing but—” Again, I stopped myself. An exegesis on chemical composition wasn’t likely to assuage Jamie’s fears. The beauty of magic was in its mystery, and wasn’t medicine a kind of magic in its own right?

_Whatever lets you sleep at night, Beauchamp._

Still wholly unconvinced, Jamie huddled five feet away.

“Aye, _medicinal_. I’d sooner die in my sleep.” Demonstrating this, he flopped to the ground and closed his eyes. “If I should perish in the night, ye have my permission to tell my Mam it was my own fault.”

“ _Fine_!” I spat. “I’ll fry your corpse and have bacon for breakfast!”

I made my own pallet beside the fire, scraping a crude ditch into the earth. The dense layer of leaves made for a surprisingly comfortable mattress, but I still tossed and turned throughout the night. Jamie might be able to survive until morning, but my bed felt disturbingly like a shallow grave.

The gales howled around us, and the hours crawled by. Even as bundled as I was, I could do nothing but quake like a sapling in a storm.

“ _Ach_! I canna sleep for all yer teeth chatterin’, Sassenach,” Jamie whined sometime later. “If I’m to ride to Cranesmuir tomorrow, I canna be falling off my horse before I get there!”

“W-well, if it was under my c-control, I wouldn’t be d-doing it, now would I?” I replied, molars and bicuspids colliding with repeated _clacks_. I wrapped my coat around me, but even its wooly bulk was poor insulation against the wind. “It’s bl-bloody c-cold out here.”

“I’m blazing like an oven.”

“A fever?” I asked, shifting quickly to examine him. The fire was dying, and the flames cast but a faint halo around our resting place. I couldn’t discern Jamie’s color in the darkness, but running a temperature in sub-degree weather seemed impossible.

“Nay, just warm blood. The cold doesna bother me much.”

I harrumped in jealousy and let my teeth resume their staccato. Jamie groaned.

“Come here, Sassenach. I’ll keep ye warm.”

“N-no thanks.”

“Ye’ll crack your teeth if ye keep on like that.”

For a moment, I entertained the notion: curling into Jamie, the two of us sleeping side by side. He was right—his closeness would bring some comfort to my cold and restless sleep. And then there was the other thought: waking in the dawn, finding his head next to mine. Sleepy eyes meeting sleepy eyes. Just one moment, a movement, an invitation, and then maybe…

The flickering light lanced off my wedding ring. It was a gleaming reminder—or accusation, rather—of where my heart should lie.

“I’m f-fine, thank you.”

“Not a lawyer either, then,” Jamie replied, chuckling.

“P-pardon?”

“Weel, as I said before: ye canna tell a joke, so ye willna be not a jester. Neither can ye tell a good lie, so ye’ll no’ make a name for yerself in a court of law.”

Too frozen to combat the insult, I turned to face the other direction.          

“Dinna be so offended, Sassenach. Being a liar isna a good thing. They make bad company, for one. You canna rest easy beside a man if ye dinna ken his true intentions.”

“I su-ppose.”

“ _I’ve_ no bad intentions, Claire. I promise, I’ll no’ touch ye. But for the love that ye bear that ugly, auld coat, will ye no’ let me _sleep_?”

The aforementioned coat, I had to admit, had done nothing to keep my fingers from turning blue. I tried wiggling them and felt the metatarsals creak into stubborn motion.

“ _If_ I come over there, will you let me b-baste you in my ‘foul-smelling, evil-doing s-shite’?”

Jamie sighed.    

“Aye, I’ll let ye have yer way wi’ me. Just come quick before I change my mind.”

I grabbed my jar of camphor and grease and sat once more upon his chest. The mixture was warm between my palms but no match for the bare skin of Jamie’s abdomen. Just being near him chased the chill away and filled me with the breath of summer.

My hands moved in gentle circles beneath his shirt, reaching around his torso before re-circling to his pectorals. It was like shaping a boulder. He did not stir under my touch, but lay still as a stone sprung from the earth. I allowed my hands to trail down his sides, but his shirt restricted access to the knotted muscles there.

“Err…it might be easier if you took this off.”

“Yer doing a poor job at easing my breathing, Sassenach,” he said, raising his arms. “Perhaps _I_ should be the one concerned of _your_ intentions.”

“Who knows when I’ll have you lying still again. And anyways, you’re as stiff as a—”

Blue eyes flew open and shone with sudden mischief.

“ _Don’t_ you say anything, James Fraser, or I swear I’ll—”

“Stiff as a what?”

I swallowed the heat crawling up my neck, but the sight of his bared chest couldn’t keep the flush from my cheeks. I pulled my hands away and placed them awkwardly on my thighs. The ointment was still slick on my fingers, and the lubrication had loosened my wedding band. I slid it off and tucked it in my pocket for sake-keeping.

“Dinna stop now!” Jamie protested. “Ye havena gotten to the worst spot!”

“That so?”

I had a few ideas as to what “spot” he was referring to but was pleasantly surprised when he only pushed himself to his elbows. His face was level with mine now, and the scent of our breath, whisky with a bit of game, mingled with the camphor. It tickled my nostrils and I sneezed, head colliding into Jamie’s chin.

“ _Achoo_!”

Pressed against him, my lips tickled his open shirtfront. I let out a gust of breath, watching as goosebumps rose in the hollow of his throat.

“Bless you, Sassenach,” Jamie said, righting me once more. I sat in his lap, face to face again, and felt strangely compelled to kiss the point of our collision.

Jamie twisted away and pointed to his neck.

“The soreness is right here, aye? I can barely turn my head when I wake in the morning.”

“Oh!” I said, “Right.” I stumbled to my feet and sat down behind him. Jamie edged backwards and into my open my legs, leaning into my touch. The entire thing seem faintly erotic, and I tried distracting myself with the feeling of loosening tissues. A soft down covered his skin, hairs glinting amber and cinnabar in the firelight. My eyes soon caught a strip of flesh, flashing silver.

“What’s this?”

“That? A souvenir from my brother, Willie.”

“The dead one?” I asked without thought. I cursed my insensitivity and took my hand away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. He _is_ dead. There’s no sense in tip-toeing around the matter.”

Jamie reached back to touch the scar himself, brushing my fingers as I resumed kneading the tender spots. It was a moment’s caress and nothing more, but still I felt electrified by the simple meeting of our skins.

“I like talking of him,” Jamie whispered. “Ignoring a dead man doesna make him any less dead, aye?”

“Some might say it makes his death easier to bear.”

“Perhaps. But if ye dinna speak of a man for the pain his death brings ye, then it’s as though he didna live at all.”

“Very true,” I replied, using an elbow to loosen a particularly large knot.

I had seen the portrait of Jamie and Willie hanging in the upstairs hallway. Like Jamie, Willie had been red-haired and built like a Norseman warrior. Had he lived into adulthood, the two of them could have easily been be mistaken for one another other—save for the eyes, of course. In this one respect, Willie did not mirror Jamie or their father. Rather, the boy’s likeness guarded the corridor with keen, gray moons—an exact replica of Ellen’s gaze.

“Will you tell me about him? Willie, I mean.”

I could feel Jamie’s tension subsiding as I plucked it from his body. I sensed a smile in his sigh, and the fond memories of his older brother settled around us.

“Weel, if ye think _I’m_ a handful, Sassenach…”

I pinched him lightly but chuckled at the joke.

“Willie was even worse. He was always running off, disappearing for hours at time wi’out so much as a word. Verra secretive, Willie was. Though I think he only meant to have some time for himself…”

“He gave me this scar when I followed him one day. I hadna come into myself then, ye see—all legs wi’ no notion of how to use them. I could no more hide myself than ol’ Cuithach, so Willie heard me creeping through the trees.”

_Listen to me, Jamie!_

_Get_ off _me, ye clotheid!_

_Then listen! You canna be out here. Ye’ll no’ follow me again, d’ye understand?_

"Hmm," I said, "let me guess…you continued to do so anyways?"

“I might have, had Willie not been such a smart _bhalaich_. But he ken I wouldna listen unless he gave me good reason to. So he told me of a witch he’d seen nearby.”

_She eats wee laddies like you, Sawny. Lures them into her dungeon and boils them into a stew!_

_Weel, yer no’ much older than me! She’ll eat you too if Mam doesna get to ye first!_

_Nay, I’m a special case. The witch would never cross me. And besides..._

“Then he had his dirk out and pricked the back of my neck. Like so.” Jamie drew a fingernail along the scar, and I could imagine the tiny red beads left by a blade.

_Now yer marked. You best run before she smells the blood and makes a meal of ye!_

I laughed. “Well, he seems a lively sort.”

“Aye, he was. Earned him a few skelpings every now and then. Brodie Aiken always went home wi’ soiled breeches after one of Willie’s stories. His Mam didna like that one bit.”

“But that night I smeared berries all over my face. Painted my eyes wi’ some dirt, and took my Da’s big coat too. I didna look like a witch, but I didna look verra friendly either.”

I envisioned a young Jamie playing dress-up, bent on fraternal revenge. Startled from his sleep, Willie had found a cloaked ghoul sitting on top of him and a pair of eyes floating in the moonbeam.

 _Wiiiiiilliam Fraser! I’m the wiiiitch of Broch Mordha, and I’ve come to eat ye for a midnight snack. Dinna scream,_ mo luaidh _, for I dinna like my food to talk!_

“There was a good deal more that I canna remember, but Willie didna heed the witch’s advice. I gave him a scar of his own, hoping to frighten him to silence.”

Jamie drew an invisible slice on the back of his neck, further down and dangerously towards the jugular.

“Jamie!”

“Aye, _I_ got a skelping for that one—and he did too, for causing such a skelloch!”  

“ _Boys_ ,” I said, shaking my head. “Any threat to your pride and you go mad.”

“We can be a foolish sort, I willna deny you that.”

“So what…happened to him then? How did he die?”

The animation disappeared from his voice, and Jamie’s posture slumped.

“The pox…” Jamie whispered. “Quick work it made of him, too. One day he was fine, and the next…” He shivered and not, I thought, for the cold. “It was around this time of year, though winter had come early and buried us in snow. My Da didna think Willie would last ‘til morning, but there was no doctor that would come in that kind of storm. Even for the laird.”

“So my Da had no choice in the matter. He slung Willie o’er the back of his horse and rode hard ‘til he found someone as could help him. I dinna ken the details, but…Willie was dead by sunup. I was none so sore about my scar then and was glad I’d left my mark as well. I thought I’d find him, easy, when my own time came.”

“I’m sorry, Jamie.”

“No need, Sassenach—it was a long time ago now. But I willna forget my Mam’s face as she watched the two of them riding into the night. I had never seen her in such a state, wilted like a wee flower who hasna known the sun. ‘Yer a good lad, Jamie,' she told me. ‘But if God should come for you before me, promise ye’ll no’ beg for mercy. He has none. Just run, _mo ghille ruaidh_. Run like the Devil and never look back.’”

“I can’t imagine losing a child,” I whispered, thinking of the times Frank and I had tried but failed to conceive. Children wanted but never given—a different sort of death. I felt a lump building in my throat and blinked my tears away.

“Nay, me either. And I dinna want to,” Jamie replied, turning his head to look at me. “But I do think ye’ve had yer own losses. I can see them in ye sometimes, when ye stop yer work in the garden and dinna look up from the ground.”

“My parents,” I said, slightly wobbly, “They died when I was five. My uncle too.”

“And yer husband? Is he gone as well?

The word ‘husband’ invoked Frank’s face in the blowing ashes. I hadn’t realized Jamie had noticed the ring around my finger and wondered if the others had seen it too.

“Gone? Frank isn’t…Well, yes. I guess he is…gone.”

Unable to withstand the mirage in front of me, I leaned my forehead into Jamie’s back. I sobbed quietly, hoping to muffle the sound in the broad expanse of bone and muscle. A loud gasp escaped anyways, and Jamie turned fully to face me.

“Shh,” he soothed. “I’ll let ye cry, Sassenach, but ye dinna need to. I didna ken your husband, of course, but I’d say he had a good life if he was able to call you his.”

Jamie laid down and patted the ground beside him. Parallel and on our sides, he cocooned me in a pocket of warmth that melted away my sorrow. Any reservations I’d had for virtue and marital loyalty we forgotten for the comfort of someone’s arms.

“I _am_ sorry for it though,” he said. “And I suppose I’m sorry for myself and for Willie, too. Sometimes I think I’m too young to ken the things I do,” he whispered. “As are you.”

“Sometimes I want to _kill_ the bloody bastard responsible for—well. But sometimes I’m grateful, too. I may know hardship, but I know strength because of it.”

“That ye do. It’s just as we were saying before. To remember may cause ye grief, but ye must remember anyways. It doesna do ye any good to deny what has made ye who you are.”

Jamie reached around and patted my coat pocket.

“I keep Willie wi’ me always—to remember. D’ye mind the wee snake ye found in here when you first came to Lallybroch?”

“‘Sawny?” I asked, recalling the carved wooden toy. “Did Willie make that for you?”

Jamie nodded and smiled. “I dinna go anywhere wi’out it.”

His hand burrowed into that same pocket and reemerged with my wedding ring. “Is it like that wi’ yer husband as well? Why ye wear this even though he’s...”

“Yes,” I finished, not wanting to hear the word “gone” a second time. Jamie offered me the ring and I accepted it, letting it carve new lines into my palms as I closed my fist. “When you’re married to someone, it’s…Even when…even _after_ …”

“Ye dinna have to explain it, Sassenach. I’ve no’ loved a lassie enough to marry her, but I ken that I wouldna forget her if I had.”

“You’ve never been in love?”

I found this hard to believe, given the flock of females that descended upon him wherever he went. Women older than his own mother clucked and gobbled when he walked through their doors, promising this or offering that in welcome. In the midst of all that attention, it seemed there should have been at least _one_ girl—or woman, perhaps—who had captured his heart.

“Nay,” Jamie said, “A few have caught my eye, but it has never been love.”

I cleared my throat and said nothing, unsure if he would elaborate or let the subject die there. He removed his hand from my side and stuck it chastely between us.

“I havena… _known_ a woman, aye?”

“In the biblical sense, you mean?”

He seemed ashamed and spoke quickly to disprove his innocence.

“That isna to say that I havena _kissed_ one.”

“Jamie,” I interrupted, “you must know there’s more to love than all that, right? Anyone can, well… _that_. But there’s _knowing_ and then there’s _truly_ knowing, and you can’t manage that with just anyone.”

“Yer verra wise,” Jamie smirked, “for a _sassenach_.”

I turned to face him. “Not for a whore, though?”

“ _Ach_ , a whore doesna ken love. Even _I_ know that. None of the whores I met in Paris had the knowing that ye speak of , though they werena wi'out the wanting of it. Or the needing.”

“How do you mean?”

“Weel, it isna easy for a lassie, aye?” he explained, rather sheepish. “I’m proud of who I am…but I hadna been ashamed of my manhood ‘til I stepped foot in a brothel. I didna realize men could be so, so…”

“Brutal? Selfish?” I posed. “Positively barbaric when it comes to seeking sexual pleasure?”

Jamie chuckled but fell suddenly silent. Tilting my face up to his, he looked at me— _into_ me—and set all joking aside.

“Not _all_ of us are like that, but, aye, some of us are. Yer a fine woman, Claire, and though ye have yer wits about ye, sometimes I worry that willna be enough. Ye dinna seem to understand that life here is....”

“Are you saying that you worry about me?” I teased, though, in truth, I could hardly think straight. I often worried about Jamie, too, and it was both a blessing and a curse to realize the concern was mutual. Jamie cared for me as much as I cared for him, but to what extent? And where did that leave me, married but estranged from my husband for who knows how long?

“I _do_ worry,” he said, “I dinna quite understand it myself…but I feel verra protective of you, Sassenach. When I see the way some men look at ye, I want to pluck the eyes straight from their heads and stuff them up their arseholes!”

“Well that’s certainly one way to deter them. Logistically speaking, though...”

“I dinna mean to dishonor Frank, but…” He peeked up through a fringe of dark lashes. “If you should ever need the care—the _protection—_ of a man, I would give it to you. I may have never loved a woman, but I do care for you. I wouldna let harm come to you.”

My conflicting emotions were heightened by the buzzing of my thoughts. On the one hand, I couldn’t let this Scottish Highlander distract me from my goal: to return to my own time, to the 20th century, to _Frank_. On the other, what Jamie said was true. Though war was but a distant possibility, there were other threats equally as dangerous, especially to a woman without money, a home, or a family to call her own. I had known ruthless men in the British army, but they had been censured by the possibility of discovery and punishment. Here, men could beat, rape, and even murder without ever meeting the hands of justice. Instead, blame fell squarely on the shoulders of their victims and little more was done about it.

My mind kept racing. Did Jamie’s offer go beyond my safety and include those other—those _biblical—_ relations we had mentioned just moments before?

“Thank you,” I said. It was a weak response, I knew, but I didn’t trust myself to say anything more. Jamie, too, seemed to be fighting his own carnal demons as something noticeably firm rose up between us. He scooted further back but still did not look away.

“I'm no' a brutal or selfish man,” he said softly, “And even if he isna alive, I wouldna steal ye from your husband. But sometimes looking at you—Weel. Sometimes I only want to bring ye to me and kiss you until ye’ve forgotten every man that came before me, or will come after.”

Whether I'd forget other men or not, I certainly forgot how to breathe, stunned as I was by his declaration. I wished my ring had stayed in my pocket, out of sight and not shining like a scarlet A around my finger.

“Jamie, I—”

“ _Ach_ , ignore me, Sassenach. That was a foolish thing to say, and I shouldna have done so.”

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the stars. I did not press him further but watched the rise and fall of his chest as the night sky was reflected in his eyes.

“I’ve always wondered…” he said after a time. “Did the stars shine like this upon Abraham? Has the sky always been so?”

I flopped onto my own back and found the same constellations I'd seen countless times, 200 years into the future. The facts of modern science came to me suddenly:

Stars were the ghosts of light, glowing memories of what came before us. What we saw now had died long ago, though it shone brightly on and demanded remembrance. I wondered if this night had been written in the sky years before, if perhaps I had already seen it. Could I have read this conversation from the fields of Alsace, lying surrounded by the sounds of dying men? On my pallet beneath the open sky, I had often sought peace in the unknown heights of the universe.

I admired the shape of Jamie’s profile. The sharp nose, the strong jaw, the waves of auburn and roan in the moonlight. He looked like Michelangelo’s David, though Jamie was far more alive and far more  _real_. More real than the moaning winds and the ground beneath me. And for the moment, more real than my life before, than the war, than Frank. Jamie was stardust himself, flung to the earth in a supernova of beauty, grace, and courage.

“I’m not so sure about Abraham’s stars,” I whispered, still watching him, “but these are the brightest I’ve seen.”

**~**

We slept like children, eased by the knowledge that we were not alone.


	4. In Which a Mystery Unfolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine when Claire asks Jamie to pull the nail from the young boys ear in Cranesmuir, things don’t actually go so smoothly for them.
> 
> As usual, Claire finds herself in some hot water.

**SCOTLAND - December 1, 1739**

By a stroke of poor luck and even poorer timing, the snow came early. Conversation was rushed—breakfast even more so —and neither Jamie nor I spoke of the previous evening. We readied ourselves with averted gazes, skirting the patch of earth molded by the shapes of our bodies. While the snow had dampened the fires of our lust, I still burned with the flickers of Jamie’s touch. My skin rose to gooseflesh in the day, as if yearning for the connection established in the night.

“We’ll arrive at noon,” Jamie said gruffly, eyes never meeting mine. I nodded but said nothing, and we set off towards Cranesmuir in silence.

Brimstone was solid underneath me, slicing the wind with strong, determined strides. The tempo of hoof beats kept me grounded, but my thoughts still strayed to Jamie. I wondered if he, too, was thinking about last night, though the strangeness between us made me worry. Had his declaration been simply the influence of whisky? A secret left for the stars, forgotten at sunrise?

By the time we reached Cranesmuir, the town was abuzz with activity. Footprints and barrow tracks marked the white-veiled cobbles, and rooftops rose into snowcapped peaks. The townspeople moved with single-minded purpose, throwing knifepoint elbows and even sharper curses to part the sea of bodies. The clouds loomed like gargoyles overhead, dark with the promise of stormy weather. Jamie and I kept to the fringes and watched the bustle from the safety of horseback.

A boy skittered close, and Brimstone’s eyes rolled into their sockets. She cantered backwards, rearing on her hind legs and shrieking above the commotion.            

“Hold her steady, Sassenach!” Jamie instructed, having no such trouble with his own mount. The stallion, Donas, remained as collected as ever, watching the proceedings with cool disinterest.

Though I’d done my share of riding, I was no expert at calming a riled horse. Brimstone’s rearing sent me flying, and I crashed to the ground with a resounding  _smack_. Stone does not a soft landing make, and I felt my brain rattle against my skull.

“Jesus H. Roosev—er, _Bloody hell_!”

An elderly man quickly rushed to my side.

“Are you all right, madame?”

He offered me his hand but then recoiled, choosing to shield nose and mouth instead. With a sound of disgust, he ran onwards and left me to the mercy of trampling feet. Only at a safe distance did he finally turn back, giving me a sneer and scalding once-over.

I rubbed my head and sniffed my armpit. Not the most pleasant smell, I admitted, but surely not so pungent as to cause offense.

“Sassenach, why must ye act more like a dog than a lady?”

Jamie’s eyes scanned the passersby, and he inclined his head as if in apology. He had Brimstone and Donas by their reins, though the former seemed happier now that her rider had been disposed of. I huffed and grabbed onto Jamie for leverage.

“I’m fine, really, thanks for asking. Just a few scratches. And _you_ ,” I whirled on Brimstone, “consider this war.”

The mare gave an indignant snort. A gust of hot air blew from her nostrils and into my face. _Challenge accepted, then._

Jamie saw to the arrangements of the horses. Rather uninterested in the whole affair—there was some petty disagreement over the stableman’s compensation—I wandered into the thick of things. While everyone else was crammed cheek-by-jowl, I was given the freedom to move as I pleased. Only the bravest souls would venture near, and even then regret showed plainly on their faces. With a cough and glare in my direction, they made a precipitous flee back to the masses, keeping a wide berth. 

Finally, Jamie fell into step beside me.

“Do I smell bad?” I asked him.

“Aye, like ye’ve not bathed in weeks,” He leaned in and choked. “Nay, that’s not it. You _have_ bathed—and recently—but in a lake of rotting corpses.”

“Let me smell _you_ ,” I said, advancing on him with a wafting hand. He reluctantly obliged as I circled him and took deep whiffs of his clothes.

“Oh, _I_ ken what yer about now, Sassenach!” Jamie teased. “Auld Alec says that some animals sniff their mates ‘fore they rut wi’ them.”

“True, but I believe it’s only the _male_ species that resorts to that sort of thing. We females have higher standards.”

“Weel, I’ve much more attractive qualities than my smell, Sassenach….Though it would shame the lassies to speak of them here.” He waggled his fingers at a young woman in braids. I knew without looking that her cheeks would redden.

“I hope so,” I said, gasping, “or you’ll never ‘rut’ with anyone in your life! Jamie, you smell terrible!”

“I do?” He spun and chased the odor like a tail.

“The camphor and goose grease,” I explained. “You reek of it. And so do I, apparently.”

We had forgotten the stench in each other's company, and it clung to us like second skins. The people of Cranesmuir might be frazzled, but they still held some semblance of propriety. Already disadvantaged by my womanhood, appearance, and Englishness, I thought the addition of “foul odor” would only make matters worse. Unfortunately, experience taught me that only a thorough scrubbing could remove the stink.

“Should we get a room and clean ourselves up?”

Jamie looked to the sky and shook his head.

“We’ve no time for that. Get what ye must and I’ll see to my Da’s things. We'll meet here in an hour.”

I sniffed myself again, but I supposed there could be no help for it. Jenny possessed the natural qualities of a healer—compassion, attention to detail, and resilience—but she lacked the more technical skills her mother would need. I worried what might happen to Ellen if we were to find ourselves truly stranded.

There was also the question of _where_ we would stay in the event of extended delay. Short on money, I didn’t think we could afford separate lodgings at an inn. Jamie and I would have no choice but to share a room, and the image of a single bed, innocent yet full of suggestion, made my toes curl.

_Get a grip, Beauchamp._

“Dinna make a mess of things, Sassenach,” Jamie warned. “I willna rescue you from a jail cell if ye land in one.”

“Not to worry,” I smiled back, “No one can approach me without dropping dead.”

I rucked my satchel up on my shoulders and strode ahead.

**~**

I failed. Completely, miserably—and with astounding quickness—failed.

I had no clue what time it was, but the waning light indicated I had not upheld my side of the agreement. I managed to gather most of my supplies but had lost track of time while speaking to an herbalist. Hearing that I sought cinchona bark, she had kindly referred me to one Geillis Duncan, Cranesmuir’s most illustrious—and infamous—healer. I wondered if perhaps Mrs. Duncan was the “nurse” Mary Hughes had mentioned, though I never got the chance to find out.

As fate would have it, I was in the throes of debate with my almost-savior from earlier. Arthur Duncan was not only Geillis’ husband and my former acquaintance, but Cranesmuir’s procurator fiscal. He was charged with administering the town’s justice and had strong opinions regarding my own notions of punishment and retribution. Presently, he was tugging at my dress and spraying spittle into my face.

“Take your hands away, sir!” I shouted, fidgeting like a drowning cricket. “I _will not_ stand for your, your— _barbaric treatment_ of this innocent boy!”

“Innocent?” Duncan cried, “The lad is a criminal! This woman here says she saw him stealing from her bags! D’ye call thievery the doings of an innocent?”

The subject of our dispute was a child of ten. His left ear was nailed to a pillory, which, Duncan had assured me, was a mild punishment given the seriousness of his crime. With sunken eyes and baggy clothes, I thought the boy's appearance spoke more of an impoverished vagrant than a scoundrel. I felt some empathy for the poor thing. I, after all, had faced similar accusations despite bearing no ill-will. Perhaps neither of us were completely innocent, but we weren’t hardened criminals, either. Just hungry.

The pillory was situated in the town's center, and a crowd had gathered around it. They shouted accusations and made tasteless gestures, incensed by the boy's tears and trickling blood. The humiliation of the child thief was more deserving of their attention than the snowy weather, it seemed.

“Mr. Duncan has the right of it!” the victim interjected. “I found this wee devil going through me things. Stole a loaf of bread, he did! And I, with five bairns to feed!”

I examined the woman coolly, taking note of her robust physique. While I tried to refrain from superficial judgment, her claim seemed ridiculously at odds with the physical evidence before me.

“Short of food, are you?” I asked.

She narrowed her eyes and pointed behind her—“Five bairns, I says!”—though her offspring were nowhere in sight. She scanned the crowd, but the cluster of bodies made every face one and the same.

“Sure you didn’t eat them all yourself?”

I immediately felt guilty for the insult, but Duncan’s claws had made me snappish. The woman placed a hand over her heart and gasped.

“Dinna pay this _sassenach_ wench any mind, Mrs. Waters,” Duncan said. “ _She_ is the only child-eater here. I reckon she wants to free the laddie so she can stuff her belly ‘fore the storm hits!”

“Aye!” an onlooker agreed. “You can smell the vapors of hell on her!”

The fiscal nodded gravely, and pulled me hard against him. I thought briefly of the parting conversation at Lallybroch: _The men will want to swive ye on the spot!_

Looking around, there were several men who seemed capable of such carnal acts of violence. Still, I didn’t think my assailant was the sort to be interested in _any_ relations with women. Save ones that involved demeaning them, punishing them, and—if the opportunity presented itself—obliterating them completely. Which, given 18th century social hierarchy, I supposed he could.

“I ken you were trouble the minute I saw ye!” he bragged, “You wi’ the hairs of Medusa and the eyes of carrion! A witch, I say! Satan’s mistress, I say!”

“Aye, I thought so too,” a new voice said.

Still trapped against Arthur Duncan, I craned my neck for a view of the stranger. I was relieved to find a familiar face: Jamie standing with a hand to his dirk. As expected, he was not as pleased to see me as I was to see him.

“She isna a witch,” Jamie continued, taking a menacing step forward. “A foolish woman, aye, but no’ a witch. Ye’ll let her go, or I’ll see that you've no eyes and ears to make such misjudgments again.”

Arthur Duncan came well below Jamie’s chest, but the man did not cower.

“Weel, if it isna Brian Fraser’s boy, come home from Paris at last!” He looked between the two of us and snarled. “Tell me, son—did the university make ye daft? Have ye taken this stinking witch to wife?”

Jamie laughed but did not acknowledge the error.

“And you, the pinnacle of justice! I dinna think that’s a fair criticism to make, for I daresay ye warm yer own bed with a—”

“ _Don’t_ speak of my wife, Jamie Fraser, or your father with hear of it! Mark my words, you will be punished for such slander!”

“Aye. And when he does, I’ll make sure he hears how you abused one of his guests. He willna be pleased about that, mark _my_ words.”

I could hear Arthur gulp behind me. While Jamie might overestimate Brian’s affection, Duncan seemed to believe I would be worthy of the laird’s concern. I felt his hold weaken and thanked God for intimidating Frasers.

“Now let her go, Mr. Duncan. I ken how ye get when yer caustic. I may smell foul myself, but ye carry a verra _distinctive_ fragrance, sir. Go home and take your medicine, and dinna trouble the lass further.”  

Visibly ruffled, Arthur unhanded me and stepped back.

“Jamie,” I plead, “tell him he has to let the boy go. He clearly stole bread because he’s starving!”

“ _Sassenach_ ,” Jamie hissed through gritted teeth, “dinna involve yourself in business ye ken nothing about. Let’s _go_.”

Jamie wiped his brow, and I noticed the sweat glistening on his forehead. His color, too, was paler than before, the inflamed cheeks now leached to white.

“Jamie, you don’t look so good.”

“Aye, I may keel over any second,” he replied. “Which is why we should leave. _Now_.”

“Listen to your husband, woman!” Arthur Duncan barked.

“He’s not—” I waved the man away, too angry to bother with corrections. “Jamie, _please_. Help him?”

Jamie grumbled and wiped his face a second time. With a groan, he charged up the pillory steps and addressed the weeping child.

“Ye’ve given us all a fine show, laddie!”

The crowd cheered in agreement and volleyed fruits and vegetables onto the platform. Jamie sidestepped a rotten tomato and watched it explode against the boy’s chest. He blanched at the splattered remains and swallowed bile before proceeding.

“We appreciate the entertainment, _a balaich_ , but I’m fair starved! How about ye tear yerself free and let us all go home to our suppers?”

The child whined and shook his head. More coaxing from the audience inspired some wiggling, but pain seared through the boy with a pathetic shriek.

Jamie crouched to his knees and set a hand on the boy's shoulder. He mumbled something I could not hear, though I noticed that the accused was barely listening. The boy repulsed as Jamie reached to ruffle his hair, hand passing just beneath his nostrils. Taken by a moment’s desperation, he ripped himself from the pillory and scurried down the steps towards home. The crowd _whooped_ , pointing to the small, pink flesh still pinned to the post. Blood dripped to the ground and created a red puddle at Jamie’s feet.

“But the boy hasna served his sentence! A criminal is running rampant in the streets!” Arthur Duncan cried, grabbing my wrist. “This is your fault, you temptress!”

“I thank you for the compliment, sir,” I sneered, “but I’m about to be the least of your problems. Have you ever dealt with an unconscious, six-foot Scot?”

Jamie had seen the torn ear and its pool of gore. He held a hand to his stomach, face pale as a ghost’s, and stumbled forwards. A last look towards the shriveled ear sealed the deal, and he teetered over the edge of the stage. Someone screamed and the crowd rippled like a wave, pushing backwards to avoid the careening giant. Only I pressed to the front, ignoring the fiscal’s shouts.

Whether satisfied with the previous spectacle or too afraid to approach me, the audience quickly dispersed. I couldn’t remember where the horses were hobbled but decided to settle for an inn closer by. To move Jamie was like uprooting a mountain, and I dragged him with little success.

“Allow me,” someone said.

I sighed as the stranger knelt beside me. The voice held a strange combination of—what, exactly? Something more worldly than the average Scottish accent, I thought. I welcomed the assistance and allowed the stranger to lift Jamie from the street. I pointed to a sign ahead, which read _The Cheetie and the Custard Pot,_ and he walked on without a word.

“Thank you,” I said, rushing to keep step with him. His strides were long and fast despite the burden in his arms. He was dressed for the cold in a fur-lined anorak, complete with hat and scarf that concealed the majority of his face. I could make almost nothing of his appearance, save that his eyes were a disarming mixture of warmth and steel. Unmasked, I figured he would be a man not far from my own age. And a strong one, too. He not only carried a 200-pound man but shouldered a large pack as well.

“Not a problem at all,” he replied.

“Some weather, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Some _Scot_ , huh?” I joked, pointing at Jamie’s limp form. The stranger laughed, and the sincerity of it made me trust him. I clocked his left hand for a wedding band but found that his fingers were gloved. “At least you’re prepared for the weather though.”

“Indeed.”

“Whereabouts are you from?”

“Not here.”

“Oh? Me either.”

“Right. Your accent.”

“Gave me away, did it?”

Now at our destination, I held the door open and motioned him past. The inn was appropriately named, I saw, as its ground floor's sole occupant seemed to be a single grey cat. Most travelers had departed earlier in the day. Others had bunkered in the rented rooms above, surrendering to a long and wintry stay. The ceiling creaked with their footsteps, and the cat hissed from the stairwell.

“Well, aren’t you a pleasant thing?” I said.

An upholstered bench was placed beneath the window, and we set our patient down. The man lifted one jellied arm from the floor and placed it gingerly at Jamie’s side. I thought this a thoughtful gesture and thanked him again.

“Here,” I said, reaching for Jamie’s sporran.

As usual, reaching inside the sporran was like sticking my hand into a black hole. I felt something sticky, then something fuzzy, but couldn’t find the smaller bag filled with coins. Frustrated, I simply dumped the contents onto the table and sorted through the mess. The source of the stickiness was an old honey ball; the fur, a dead mole’s foot.

“ _Yuck_!” I said. I threw the thing towards the cat. “You might enjoy that, little one.”

Sawny the snake was there too, and my heart clenched at the memory of Jamie’s brother. At last, I spotted what I needed and withdrew several shilling.

“Take this. Please—for your trouble.”

The man shook his head, though his eyes ignored my outstretched palm. They scanned the table, growing increasingly frantic as they studied each object. Something earned a faint squeak and his shoulders went suddenly rigid.

“N-no,” he stammered, backing away. Jamie stirred on the bench, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “I-I really should be going now.”

The man tripped over a chair leg and lost his balance. His hat fell off and his scarf slithered to the floor. I noticed that his hair was cropped short, his skin freckled from sunlight. I spotted the hint of a sideburn, too—a light auburn fuzz extending just past his ear. Before I could study him closer, he had already readjusted himself and was running for the exit.

“Wait!” I yelled, picking up the scarf. “You forgot this!”

He paused in the doorway and cursed. His face was expressionless as he barreled towards me, though he was more handsome than I’d given him credit for. Perhaps he even looked a bit like—

“Thank you, miss,” he said, glancing sidelong at Jamie. "Please don't say anything of this to him.”

He took the scarf and spun away. Again, the hat fell lopsided across his face and revealed more of the reddish crop underneath. He yanked it off completely, grumbling to himself on the way out.

I watched him through the window until he was out of sight. Realization crept down my spine and my heart thumped against my ribcage.

“Sassenach,” Jamie muttered, “what…happened?”

I was silent.

“Sassenach,” Jamie repeated, “how did I get here?”

“A man,” I whispered finally.

Jamie sat upright and edged closer.

“Claire, are you all right? He didna hurt you, did he?”

“No, he didn’t hurt me.”

“Who was he then? _Claire_?”

I had stopped breathing at some point. I willed my lungs into action, but oxygen was slow and stubborn. A soft _meow_ snapped me to attention.

“I don’t know. Just...a man.”

But I did know, of course. I was sure I did.

During the brief meeting of our eyes, I had found something oddly familiar in the face of my helper. He regarded me with a wise omniscience that I had seen many times before—in the face of a friend and in a painting in an upstairs hallway. A glimpse of him from behind had only confirmed it. Without the protection of his scarf and hat, the man’s neck had lain fully exposed to my sight. And cutting from back to front was a long and silver slash —a scar. A souvenir.

_I gave him a scar of his own, hoping to frighten him to silence._

No. He wasn’t just a man. Nor was he a random stranger.

His name was William Simon Murtagh Mackenzie Fraser. And he was alive.


	5. A Stag, Rising

**SCOTLAND - January 30, 1727**

Brian Fraser plunged headfirst into the wilderness, each step guided by the threads of secondhand memory. What was benevolent in the day was made dangerous by the night: firs rustled with carefully laid schemes, the boulders turned cruel and murderous. The sky gaped like a bottomless mouth, swallowing time and space so that the world lay frozen in a wintry, white light.

Still, Brian’s feet pounded against the snow, his eldest son strung across his back. He was an arrow aimed for the vaguest target—a single, hazy image:

_Where’ve ye been all day, mo charaid?_

_At the stag tree._

_The stag tree?_

_The one wi’ the antlers, ye ken? It speaks to me._

All things considered, Brian should not have noticed the tree, twisted and forked within a copse of others just like it.  It was unremarkable at first glance, for its distinguishing features were barely visible even to those expecting them. Only at a particular angle could you discern the silhouette of a stag, the misshapen trunk forming a primitive snout and rising into horned antlers. And only the keenest eye could spot the carvings at its base, the artless configuration of symbols seeming more accidental than purposeful. If not missed entirely, one could believe the stag face an optical illusion, attribute its carvings to the workings of erosion, taloned animals or mere happenstance.

And yet, Brian Fraser _knew_.

He knew this was the place because he remembered it the way one remembers a bizarre, half-formed dream. Except this dream was not his own, but passed onto him in a series of fragmented descriptions. From Willie:

_By the brook._

_The wee clearing in the woods._

_The stag tree._

_It speaks to me._

The sight of the tree made Brian’s nerves tingle, instincts rousing him to high alert. He stood with his legs tensed, ready to spring, though there was little that required action. Only the rip of the wind pierced the rhythm of his son’s breaths, the snowstorm bearing down like the violent fist of Zeus.

“ _Mo chridhe_ ,” Brian whispered softly. His son groaned.

Willie had been delirious since sunrise, speaking in stilted circles that neither Brian nor Ellen had understood. It was only after Jamie had lamented their ruined plans (“But he said he would _finally_ show me the tree tomorrow!”), that Brian had found logic in the litany of names and places. But by then it had seemed almost too late.

 _Almost_ , Brian thought now. _Almost_.

Brian had clung to _Almost_ since he had left Lallybroch with his gun, back, and heart loaded. He had looked over his shoulder to find Ellen in the doorway, her face drawn and begging: _Save him_.

Now it was the image of this tree, all antlers and carvings, that kept Brian fortified amidst the storm. Waiting.

“This is the place, aye? This is the tree?” Brian tried again. Willie moaned and croaked something about his ears. _The ringing_ , Brian thought he heard him say, but he did not need clarification.

This was the place.

Brian swung his son around so that he cradled Willie in his arms. Parched lips opened wide, greedy for air that would not reach his lungs. Brian remembered a similar moment, years before, when Willie had emerged into the world as a red-faced and gasping infant. Back then, the future had loomed vast and endless. Back then, Willie had been small enough to fit in the cup of Brian’s palm.

_He’s small now, but he’ll be a braw laddie when he’s older! Perhaps bigger than you, m’Laird!_

_Aye, but he has Ellen’s eyes._

The midwife had been right, of course. Willie had skipped the awkward, gangly phase of adolescence and leapt straight to manhood. By eleven, he towered above his friends and looked down with eyes wiser than their years. Willie could have been an emperor in his former life, Brian thought, or the captain of a massive fleet.

Brian felt anger tighten his muscles. How could there have been no warning signs? No symptoms? How could the exuberant boy-man, emperor, and ship captain of yesterday be felled overnight?

“ _Much, mo naoidheachan, much_ ,” he soothed. “It will be over soon.”

Brian regretted the words immediately, fearing they might be mistaken for surrender. He looked up into the cavernous gray and swore he saw a smile, a flash of teeth. When had the world begun to conspire against him?

“You’ll be better soon,” Brian corrected, “As long as that wee bitch doesna leave us here to die.”

A twig snapped, and the stag seemed to shift in the night.

“No one is dying tonight, Brian Dubh,” a woman’s voice said.

Even the shadows could not hide the fire of her hair. A pair of emeralds, bulging from their sockets, floated above a reptilian grin.

“I-I dinna want to do this,” Brian stammered as she approached, a half-hearted attempt to preserve his honor. He was a godly man, after all—he had never, _would never_ consort with the devil—but Brian Fraser would do what he must to save his son.

_She is our only hope. I willna let my son die if there is hope._

_Ye ken what they say about her, Ellen._

_Aye, that she's a witch—and our only hope._

“Regrets already, Dubh?” the woman sneered. “And the sun not yet risen! Mind, I’ve good word it’s but less than an hour away.” Her voice was pitched like a young girl’s, at odds with spotted hands now reaching towards him. “I’ve no time to wrangle wi’ yer morals, man. I willna harm the laddie.”

“And how am I to take ye for yer word?”

“ _My word_ , ye say?” she cried, incredulous. “I come to ye in the freezing snow to save yer boy and ye doubt me?” She _tsked_ , eyes challenging as she knelt to the ground. She bowed her head in reverence, procured a blade from her billowing cloak and pressed it to her chest. The steel was worn, rusted with use.

“What are ye—”

“I swear on the cross of my Lord Jesus,” she began, “and by the iron which I hold that…”

“D’ye think me daft, woman? Yer a witch, no’ a clansman. You canna swear on a Lord ye dinna believe in.”

“ _Chan urrainn do dhuine ‘sambith seirbhis a dhéanamh do dhà mhaighstir_ ,” she spat.

“Aye, ye canna serve two masters, but how do I ken which it is ye serve?”

The woman reached up to rest one mottled hand on Willie’s forehead, the other still holding the blade against her. The childish tone deepened, and she spoke in a low baritone:

“I serve _him_ ,” she said, “For he has been chosen. And so I vow to you, Brian Fraser, that I will do my duty by your son.”

Brian studied her face for trickery, but he knew cracks could be veiled by glamours, if not practiced deceit itself. The woman saw his hesitation and increased the blade’s pressure. She hissed, the faint tang of blood filling the space between them.

“I give your son my fealty and pledge him my loyalty. If ever my hand is raised against him, then I ask that this holy iron may pierce my heart.”

The first ray of sunlight lanced through the distant peaks. The threat of dawn propelled Brian forwards, thrusting his son into the woman’s arms before he had the presence of mind to turn back. His lips met Willie’s in final parting, and his tears were frozen tracks on his cheeks.

“Da?”

“Willie,” Brian said, “we will meet again, _a bhalaich_. Ye’ll be somewhere safe soon.”  

The woman closed her eyes and groped for the tree trunk, fingers blindly tracing the hieroglyphs. She hummed in understanding before turning her face up to Brian’s.

“Do not follow me, Brian Dubh. Do not seek me, and do not seek your son. He will come when he is ready. We will all come when he is ready.”

She stayed huddled on the ground and inclined her head towards the crumpled figure, whispering—incantations? Prayers? From the same cloak, she withdrew a ruby necklace and draped it around Willie’s neck.

When the woman stood at last, Brian could not meet her eyes. Instead, he looked to the carvings, wanting answers to the questions he could not voice aloud.

_Our only hope._

_Save him._

If the woman should fail, Brian thought, he would not rest until her face lay beneath his blade and a bright, sunny sky. He would hang it from the stag tree, crown its antlers with her blood and gore, a promise of vengeance for those who dared betray him.

When Brian finally looked up, the woman was gone. Only the stag tree stood before him now, appearing higher and mightier than it had been in her presence. Far in the distance, Brian spotted a ruby, winking red in the growing sunlight.

“God go wi’ ye, _mo ghille ruaidh_ ,” he prayed, and the wind whipped around him. The tree creaked, whispering a reply:

_Bragh Stuart._


	6. Gloria Steinem Picks Locks & Dead Boys Climb Through Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire burgles Geillis Duncan's house; the stranger returns.

**SCOTLAND (Cranesmuir) - December 1, 1739**

I supposed that what I was doing was not exactly _ethical_. That my erstwhile husband—Frank Randall, the evangelist of scruples—would be rather ashamed.

However.

I also supposed that ethics, scruples, and Frank—the whole damn lot of it—had been forsaken the minute I stumbled upon the Fraser family in August of 1739. Three months and one season change later, and I had yet to be struck by lightning or spontaneous blindness. I thought that if, by chance, I should be suddenly met with karmic punishment—something Sisyphean, perhaps—well then, I had learned enough about perseverance to keep myself alive.

Little did Frank know, I would be an accomplished thief by our second wedding anniversary. Presently, I was clad in the innkeeper’s cloak (respectfully borrowed; not smelling of camphor) and fiddling with a lock that wouldn’t turn. Darkness had fallen, and I could scarcely see two inches in front of me.

“You bloody, _bloody_ bastard. Come on, damn you!”

Following my encounter with Arthur Duncan and the stranger, I’d been unable to banish the possibility of Willie’s survival from my mind. I had wisely kept these presumptions to myself, but I couldn’t deny my niggling curiosity. I’d be damned if I didn’t try to solve the mystery while it lay so closely beneath my nose.

Jamie had been reluctant to accept my plan, but I’d become somewhat adept in the art of coaxing him into agreement. He was no in position to argue anyways, reeling as he still was from his collapse in the town square.

“Sassenach, have ye gone mad? We dinna have the time to…to _burgle_ the Duncan’s house!”

“Well, we can’t just leave without the medicines! That’s the whole point of this trip!”

Jamie, still an abominable shade of white, had collapsed against the bench and groaned in frustration.

“Did ye no’ get what ye needed from the crofters’ lassies?”

“Only the basics. I still need,” I waved my hand, knowing the importance of the ever-elusive cinchona bark would be lost on him, “other things.”

“But why must ye resort to thievery? Can ye not go about things wi’out breaking the law?”

I was stung by the underlying accusation, but then Jamie hadn’t met Claire _Randall_ , the more scrupulous woman of my past. While I had done everything I could to care for Ellen and Broch Mordha’s sickly tenants, I had also stolen Jamie’s things, beat him at shinty (unlawful by his standards, of course), and gotten into a dispute with Cranesmuir’s procurator fiscal. Not exactly an example of exemplary behavior.

This last bit of evidence was precisely why a knock at the Duncan’s door and a friendly “Hello!” simply wouldn’t do.

“I can’t very well go to Geillis now. Not after her husband wants me hanged!”

“Aye, but ye dinna ken his wife, Sassenach. She’s no stranger to cries of ‘witch’.”

“Well, she’s the only one in this godforsaken town who has what I need.”

“So burglary is the answer?” Jamie cried. “Have ye lost yer head? What d’ye plan on saying to the woman when she finds ye in her home?”

“Mr. Begbie,” I had called, addressing the innkeeper. Mr. Alfred Begbie was a hawkish man, eyes like black pearls and a pointed nose that dominated his face. Still, he’d been more than hospitable, providing us with extra blankets and hay so that our sharing a bed would be unnecessary. “Mr. Begbie, would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Fraser what you told me earlier?”

The innkeeper looked up from his place by the fire, offering a leering gaze at my chest.

“Aye, that you’ve a supple pair o’—”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed.

“Not _that_ , Mr. Begbie. The other thing. What you said about Mr. and Mrs. Duncan?”

“Aye,” Begbie grumbled, clearly disinterested in matters beyond the female anatomy. “Why, they’ll be at the Ross’ house this evenin’. One last council meeting ‘fore the storm sets in. Mistress Duncan willna pass up an opportunity to plant the seeds of evil, and Mr. Duncan is a spineless fool who canna deny her anything.”

I smirked at Jamie. “See? She’ll be too busy _planting the seeds of evil_ to catch me.”

“Aye,” Jamie replied, “and what of the servants then? D’ye have a plan for them too?”

“Deep in her cups, I reckon,” Mr. Begbie interjected, “Bit of a drunk, that Jeannie is.” I noted a hint of nostlagia in the innkeeper’s voice. I wondered if perhaps Jeannie had a fine pair breasts as well—and was more appreciative of Begbie’s advances.

“Easy!” I exclaimed.

“Too easy, Sassenach. _Burglary?_ D’ye understand what yer saying?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, ignoring the logical holes. There might be methods just as suitable for acquiring the cinchona, but those also required time—which, in our current circumstances, was sorely lacking. Fat clouds still squatted overhead, threatening to shed their snowy burdens and bury the town in white. “And you’re going to help me. How familiar are you with picking locks?”

“ _Me_?”

“No, the cheetie,” I retorted, rolling my eyes towards the cat. “Yes, you.”

Jamie’s eyes had widened in disbelief.

“You don’t have to play innocent with me, Jamie. You’ve picked your fair share of locks in your time. And you're going to bloody tell me how to do it.”

White turned red in a matter of seconds, and I could feel the heat of his embarrassment, even seated from my distance. It reminded me of the previous evening: the two of us curled side by side, puzzling the electricity between us. The awkward but exciting tension of two adolescents discovering the powers of attraction. Except _we_ weren’t two adolescents: Jamie was a virginal Highlander, and I was a bloody married woman.

“Perhaps,” Jamie had conceded, “but I havena broken into someone’s _house_! Just my father’s...”

“I really don’t want to know,” I replied, holding up a stilling hand. “Just show me how it’s done, will you?”

Jamie obliged and, in return, I didn’t pry into the finer details of his skill. He had kindly insisted on accompanying me (“Why don’t I go wi’ you? Or in your place?”), and I had not-so-kindly lied about why his assistance was unnecessary (“If we’re to have any hope of returning to Lallybroch tonight, you really ought to rest.”). Because while I fully intended to burgle Geillis for the cinchona bark, my crime _did_ serve another purpose:

William Simon Murtagh Mackenzie Fraser.

Only after tossing around the memory of our meeting, had I remembered the strange, acrid smell emanating from his clothes. Undeniably foul but also undeniably the odor of hellebore, or dungwort. And hellebore was yet another object of my search, something the Cranesmuir herbalists said Geillis Duncan stocked in full measure. Whether or not my assumption of the stranger’s identity were true, I thought the Duncan household the perfect place to begin my investigation. A snoop around might uncover some clue—a transaction log, perhaps—as to the kind of patrons who visited that tall, slate house along the square. One Willie Fraser, to be exact.

Thus, here I was: picking the lock of a ‘witch’s’ lair. Being from the 20th century, I knew Geillis’ infamy was merely the result of superstition. My own experience could even attest to this, as my healing skills had been the subject of much speculation since my arrival. What was misunderstood was often misinterpreted, deemed “evil” or “witchcraft” by those of the more primitive past. In all likelihood, I had more in common with Geillis Duncan than I had with Jamie or his family—an implication I thought it best not to dwell on.

And yet. Picking the Duncan’s lock did fill me with some trepidation, and it wasn’t the fear of punishment that scared me, but rather the idea of incurring a witch’s wrath.

A few more twists and turns, and the lock still wouldn’t budge. Desperate, I used more force, jamming the small stick into the keyhole and twisting it back and forth. My prayers for the tell-tale _click_ were finally granted, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The knob turned without resistance and, soon enough, I found myself in the rear stairwell of the Duncan’s home. I sniffed the air for signs of company—the scent of a fire, a recently cooked meal—but the stench of herbal medicine hung like an impenetrable fog. I felt an oncoming sneeze and used my arm to muffle the sound. Still, nothing stirred. Jeannie had either lived up to her reputation or I had simply burgled an empty house.

I didn’t bother searching the ground level. As the procurator fiscal, I knew Arthur couldn’t afford to have his wife’s illicit dealings visible through a first floor window. If, in fact, Geillis Duncan was in the business of spells and potions, wouldn’t she keep such incriminating proceedings to more private quarters?

As I climbed the stairs to the top floor, I couldn’t help but find some humor in the situation. The dark hallways, the eerie silence, and the looming threat of black magic were straight out of a children’s book. Again, I felt some empathy for Carroll’s Alice who, by eating a cookie or drinking some tea, fell into a Wonderland of bewildering creatures and foreign lands. _I_ had touched a couple of stones, fallen two-hundred years in time. And perhaps those damn apples were what had brought me to the home of the 18th century Mad Hatter.

At the top of the staircase, warm light seeped from beneath a door.

“Oh, give me a break,” I huffed, “Next you’re going to tell me there’s buried treasure under some loose floorboards.”

The door groaned as I pushed it open, revealing a low-ceilinged and cluttered room. Every corner was strewn in spindly, iridescent threads while the surfaces were smothered by a film of dust. Three large candles flickered, left irresponsibly lit in the homeowners’ absence. Geillis Duncan might use the room for her workspace, but she certainly didn’t allow her customers up here. One whiff of the place would deter business, or worse – suffocate someone entirely.

I strode inside, and my feet found uneven ground.

“ _Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ_!”

Now sprawled on the floor, I looked behind me and found the perpetrator: four floorboards, all shifted aside to unveil a small hollow underneath. The space was shallow and empty, a dustless imprint the only remains of its former contents. The entire scene seemed too uncanny for my liking, and I twisted around to find the prankster responsible. Surely, I was now the victim of some kind of joke? Had Geillis Duncan caught wind of my plan and tried to fool me? Was this my bad karma?

“Is-is anyone there?” I stammered, looking from tables to chairs to shelves. Suddenly, the room seemed to breathe, as though my voice had summoned a league of ghosts.

I was rubbing my sore ankle when something caught my eye: a trail of footprints in the dust, leading to the southeastern corner. Collecting myself, I stood to follow the path, snatching a beaker from a nearby worktable. A quick smash against a hard surface, and I thought the glass might make a passable defense against whatever lurked in the shadows.

“I-I see your footprints, you know,” I warned, advancing slowly. “I know you’re there.”

But what I stumbled upon was not threatening in the least, only a locked chest. Baffled by the discovery, I knelt to examine it.

“Don’t. Move,” someone commanded. A familiar voice, partly Scottish, but dominated by an accent my memory could not place. “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.”

 _American_ , I thought suddenly. But how was that possible?

By instinct, I raised my hands and stared straight ahead.

“ _Shoot_ me?”

“Y-yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’ll shoot you. I will!”

I knew very little of 18th century weapons, but I was educated enough to know that a pistol of this era had poorer aim than a blind man with a dart. Two men might stand twenty-feet apart and their bullets would go astray, ricocheting off a nearby tree or flying over each other’s heads.

I slowly turned to face him, and when I did, my heart stopped. This time, there was no scarf or hat to disguise his face. Immediately, I saw the closely cropped red hair and the wise silver eyes.

“ _You_!”

“I said don’t move!”

We were separated by ten feet of space, the pair of us engaged in what Frank would have called a Mexican standoff. I didn’t dare move, but neither did he, and we continued to stare at each other like the leads of a Hollywood Western, breathing heavily and shoulders tensed.

My eyes landed on the gun in his hands, far more compact and complex than the average 18thcentury firearm. I tightened my grip around the glass beaker.

“What are you doing here?” He extended his arm so that the gun loomed closer.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“I asked you first.”

“Well, I asked you second.”

He nodded, allowing a chuckle that I found unnervingly reminiscent of Jamie. He used his weapon to point at a window.

“I crawled through there,” he explained. “Didn’t bother to pick the lock.”

“And I came through the back door. I _did_ bother to pick the lock.”

“Not very clever,” he sneered, finally replacing the gun in its holster.

“And breaking your neck is?”

In a gesture of mutual respect, I set the beaker down and slowly walked towards him. Like Jamie, he was tall and broad-shouldered, a beast in the midst of delicate bottles and leafy plants. He was a man in a woman’s place, and his awareness of such was palpable in the way his eyes could not meet mine directly.

I took his discomfort to assert my authority, reached up to turn his head. As expected, my fingers found what they sought:  _a souvenir_ , a scar stretching down the length of his neck.

“Your name is...” I began, but he shrank from my touch and looked to the open door. Again, my eyes lighted on the empty hiding spot, and I thought of the chest in the corner.

“Who sent you? You some sort of spy?”

“Spy?” I balked. “Nobody sent me anywh—”

“They sent you to bring me back, didn't they? To hide out with my family and wait for me there?”

“I am _not_ a spy. My name is Claire Beauch—”

Now it was his turn to be surprised.

“You’re the one? _You_?” he said, approaching hysterics. His eyes raked up and down my body, recognition lifting his brows when they finally reached my head. At last, he nodded, as though a closer examination of my face confirmed his suspicions. “Word travels fast on the other side. I didn’t read the full report, but they were right. You do look like a wet poodle.”

I ran my fingers through my curls, mildly offended, though I imagined that the 18th century’s lack of haircare had done me no favors. I tried to find a proper response but could only stutter fragmented sentences, half-finished explanations that I didn’t quite understand myself. He waited patiently for the tongue-tie to run its course, but when words continued to fail me, he cursed.

“People will be looking for you, you know. You can’t just _leave_. And traveling on a sun feast? Rookie fuckin’ mistake, lady.”

Again, I could only gape, and so he charged forwards to shake me by the shoulders.

“Look, I don’t actually care who you are or where you come from, but you can’t tell her I’m here.” He looked to the window, still ajar. The night’s first snowy drifts were accumulating on the sill below. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

I removed his hands and clasped them within my own, sure to keep my tone even and measured. I recalled the hundreds of soldiers I’d treated during the war: their franticness, their desperation. Like spooked horses, their fears could only be allayed by soothing words and the gentlest of touches.

“I’m not either. So let’s help each other out, hm? I’ll help you if you’ll do the same for me.”

He shook his head, vehement. “You don’t understand. She can’t find me, otherwise...”

“Otherwise what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled away. “I’m not going to explain it to you, all right?”

He grabbed two bags and threw one into the shallow hideaway before sliding the floorboards into place.

“Don’t say anything to Gillian about me, and I won’t say anything about you to _them_. Got it?”

"Gillian?"

But he spun around and charged down the stairs, me scuttering fast on his heels.

“You died of the pox!” I cried, not knowing how else to stop him. “And that scar on your neck, it’s—it’s from your younger brother. You’re supposed to be dead, but. Well, I don’t really know all the details, but I’m almost _sure_ your name is Willie and—”

The man stopped in his tracks, shoulders slumping. Without turning to face me, he breathed deeply and exhaled.

“I have a feeling you’re not going to leave me alone.”

“You’re right about that, at least.”

“And I’m assuming you’re also the type who doesn’t keep her mouth shut, huh? Women empowerment, equal rights, that sort of thing? That might be all the rage where you’re from, but here, it’ll...”

He paused, Adam’s apple bobbing. He massaged the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “ _Anyways_ , please tell me you prefer pleasing husbands over burning bras. That would make things much easier.”

“I’ve never burned a bra,” I spat, “though I’ll admit, it does sound oddly liberating.”

The tips of his ears were a deep pomegranate, and his upper lip glistened in the candlelight. “Christ, I don’t have time for this.”

“Willie, wait!” I begged, “Your mother. She's—”

He stiffened, but there was a touch of pride in his voice when he spoke.

“Sick? Not anymore, she isn’t.”

My mouth dropped open, and Willie’s palm came rushing towards me. My words escaped in a wave of nonsense, muffled by his palm.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” he cursed, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this.” While his reluctance was obvious, there was no denying the odd sense of understanding between us, two wanderers reunited by fate’s mysterious whims. I didn’t bother struggling out of his hold. Oddly enough, I trusted him.

“I’ll help you,” Willie granted at last, hand dropping from my mouth, “but then you _must_ leave me alone. No questions.”

“Why?” I burst.

“Why?”

“I mean, thank you, of course, but…” I floundered. “You should come home, Willie. Your family should know.”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Who the fuck trained you? Are you crazy?”

“Says the dead boy who just climbed through a three-story window!”

“Look, lady,” he replied, “I don’t know why you’ve gone rogue, but I get it. ‘Fuck the System’, right? But I swear to God, if you don’t _get out_ of here, there’s gonna be trouble for the both of us. So let’s move it.”

Willie brushed passed me, his sack of contraband left lying on the step. It slouched to the side, a sapphire and an opal sliding just into sight. I looked between the gems and their newfound owner, deciding that confusion would have to do for the moment. _Questions later, burglary now, Beauchamp._

“If we get arrested for this, know that there’s no way in hell I’m vouching to get you out of a jail cell. You hear me, Steinem?”

“Crystal,” I whispered, watching familiar legs pace the room, familiar eyes dilate in calculation. “I’ve heard that sort of thing before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per a few requests, I daresay there will be some Jamie/Claire fluffiness in the next installment...


	7. Under Your Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire returns from the Duncan's. Things get real whisky n' frisky at the inn.

**SCOTLAND - December 1, 1739**

By the time I emerged from the Duncan’s home, a fine scrim of ice had settled over the streets. I spent much of my homeward journey muttering Hail Mary’s, hoping my poor coordination and even poorer sense of direction wouldn’t lead me astray. Inclement weather notwithstanding, I dreaded stumbling into unfamiliar territory—particularly given the knowledge Willie had just passed along to me.

Me, a time traveler. And one among many, if he was to be believed.

And me, a wanted criminal—but for what crime exactly?

I had travelled, yes, but my passage through the stones had been merely accidental. And whatever ulterior motives Willie’s _they_ thought I possessed were, in fact, unprecedented assumptions. My only course of action had been planning my escape, but even that had been stalled. So far, I’d led an average 18 th century life and, aside from some petty theft, largely acted as a lady should.

Well, _tried_ to, anyways.

Still, I felt a lurking presence at my back. I ducked into random taverns and closes along the way, wanting to shed my phantom followers. Even sheltered from the cold, I felt the ice in my bones, crystallizing the memories of my conversation with Willie.

He’d remained tight-lipped throughout our ransacking, and I, still reeling from the vagaries he _did_ share, was too spooked to form coherent questions. I thought about turning back now, demanding answers. But Willie would be long gone by now , off to who knows where, what time or place. Though the entire thing had left me shaken, my one consolation was knowing Ellen would be all right.

“Bloody _bastard_ ,” I cursed now. “Just running off like that without—”

At last, I spotted The Cheetie’s sign ahead. Battered by the wind, it swung on its hinges like a waving lighthouse keeper at harbor. I hastened towards it, torn between sharing my experience with a friendly stranger and denying its existence altogether.

Seeing the neat rows of liquor bottles, I concluded a stiff drink was in order. Honesty always benefitted from a small loosening of the tongue, and denial came easier when the mind was muddled. Whether Jamie or oblivion found me first, I thought some spirits-induced encouragement would smooth whatever difficulties laid ahead.

“I need a drink,” I proclaimed, slamming a fist against the bar top. My eagerness was superseded only by Mr. Begbie’s, who promptly scrambled out of his chair. He quickly set aside his book— _Homer_ , much denser than I would have given him credit for—and leapt to my immediate service. A glass materialized in front of me and was soon followed by a bottle of whisky.

“The good stuff,” Mr. Begbie said proudly. “Nothing stronger in all o’ Scotland!” Spout uncorked, its stench wafted towards me, and I had no reason to doubt Begbie’s claim. My head seemed to drift to the ceiling, carried off on a sea of potent whisky.

Mr. Begbie filled a quarter of the glass, and I placed a beseeching hand over his.

“A little more, will you? Bit of a rough day.”

The innkeeper smiled, no doubt thinking the alcohol might warm me towards his advances. Already, he had taken notice of my flushed cheeks and had no qualms about expressing his appreciation (“My, the cold does suit ye, Mistress Claire.”) I turned a deaf ear, focusing only on the steady rise and flow of whisky in the highball.

Now filled halfway, Mr. Begbie pushed the drink across the bar top.

“There ye go, lass. Down the hatch.”

“Cheers,” I said and gulped in one swig.

Feeling dizzy but courageous, I turned to scan the lobby. A pair of men played chess by the fire, the larger of the two glowing with imminent victory. An elderly woman was knitting across from them, looking forlornly at the snow-covered streets. I noticed several misplaced stitches and felt a pang of nostalgia for my old stockings, always poorly darned by Lamb.

“Where’s Jamie?” I asked. His absence was almost palpable.

Mr. Begbie looked sheepish, and his eyes darted to the corner. Floating atop the waste bin was an empty bottle, identical to the one that had supplied my own drink. I looked at Mr. Begbie, incredulous.

“Did he—?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Fraser was rather…Weel, after a puir match of chess wi’ Mr. Jones over there,” And here, he nodded towards the champion in the corner, “the lad was in need of a wee dram.”

“Or five, apparently.”

Mr. Begbie reached over the counter in earnest.

“I tried to put him against it, Mistress, make no mistake! I ken ye planned to be on yer way this evening, but then he wouldna listen.”

“So you mean to tell me Jamie’s… _drunk_?”

There was no need for corroboration, for the facts proved themselves with loud, lumbering footsteps. I caught snatches of slurred Gaelic as the descendant rammed against the stairwell, bouncing back and forth like an inebriated pinball.

Finally, a bleary-eyed and disheveled Jamie appeared at the landing. He paused, teetering slightly, and I motioned for Mr. Begbie to pour me another drink.

“Another?” he balked, and I hissed back, “Yes, _another_.” I grabbed the glass, newly-refilled, and sauntered towards my friend.

“Jamie, lad!” I called with false sweetness. Immediately, Jamie looked up, hands held up in defense.

“Sassenach, I swear. I didna mean to—”

“Get drunk?” I calmly sipped my whisky, feigning self-control. My head still felt detached from my neck, mind gone blurry. “Dear me. And here you were just hours before, chastising me for my bad behavior.”

Jamie regarded me with suspicion and made a comment about the impassible roads. Indeed, the snow now lay three inches deep, and my wind-burned nose could attest to the chill. Our journey to Lallybroch would have to wait, though when the storm would subside, only God knew. My hairs stood on end at the thought of our delay but, again, I felt soothed by Willie’s reassurance. Ellen was fine; Ellen would survive.

“I ken we couldna leave tonight, what wi’ the storm,” Jamie went on to explain. “And it’s just…I’m no’ used to _losing_ , ye see. And Mr. Jones, he challenged me to…”

Mr. Jones, by this time, had abandoned his game to watch the spectacle. Only then did I recognize his smile was unnaturally placid—and obviously the result of overindulgene. He, too, looked barely capable of standing, much less chessboard strategizing.

“So he also challenged you to drinking contest?”

“Aye, for my redemption,” Jamie replied, too ashamed to look at me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t clear if redemption had actually been won. There seemed to be no true winner, as both men appeared equally sloshed. To Jamie’s credit, he at least had an excuse. A weak immune system did damnable things to one’s alcohol tolerance.

If it weren’t for my memories of our shinty match—Jamie, on the losing side then as well—I would have thought this completely out of character. But I knew Jamie was prideful, and I also knew that young men would rather drink themselves to death than accept defeat. Jamie being no exception.

 _Small blessings, I suppose…_ I thought, seeing the silver lining. If _Jamie_ was drunk, and _I_ was drunk...well, that made the impending conversation much less frightening.

“Oh, how delightful!” I cooed now. Jamie backed away slowly, spewing more justifications in his defense. I laughed and realized I was further gone than I thought.

“Sassenach,” Jamie said, “yer scaring me. As happy as I am to ye smiling, it isna like you to be so…so…”

“Understanding?”

Again, I giggled, and finished the rest of my drink. I mouthed a silent “thank you” to the men over my shoulder, pulling Jamie by the hand.

“Jamie, lad,” I repeated, words still spun like sugar. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve a few things I need to tell you.”

**~~~**

The thing about descending stairs is that, compromised balance or not, sheer momentum can carry you along. _Climbing_ stairs, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether...For if you’re unable to lift one leg after the other, then someone else must compensate for your weakness. Today, that someone was me and, unfortunately, my own strength had been fuzzied by the two glasses of whisky. I groaned beneath Jamie’s weight, but eventually we managed to stumble to the second floor, his arm draped around my shoulders.

We were breathless by the time we reached our private room. We collapsed onto the bed, colliding in a tangle of limbs, smelly clothes, and coughs. I could feel Jamie’s breath on my face, a miasma of male sweat, camphor, and whisky.

“I ken ye’ve things to talk about, Sassenach,” he wheezed, “but I dinna think I’ll remember by morning. Just tell me if ye got yer wee herbs, so we can leave once the storm clears.”

 _It’s now or never_ , I thought, pushing myself into a sitting position. I tamed my hair and cleared my throat.

“Jamie, do you trust me?” Beside me, Jamie groaned, still struggling to lift himself from the mattress.

“Aye, I do,” Now upright, his expression softened when our eyes met, and he reached for my face. His fingers lightly kissed my temple before tucking an errant curl behind my ear. “You missed one.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Did ye run into Geillis Duncan, then?” Jamie said, eyes alight. “She wasna angry at you for burgling her house?”

“No, I didn’t run into Geillis Duncan. I ran into…someone else.”

“Someone else? A stranger, ye mean?”

My trip to the Duncan household had been successful, albeit bizarre, as I’d managed to find the cinchona with Willie’s help. But once I explained its purpose—to ease Ellen’s pain—Willie reminded me that such measures were unnecessary. Ellen Fraser was no longer ill, he claimed, but I was unwilling to take that risk. Even if I was certain of Willie's honesty, I wanted to have other options, should his plan fail.

 _And what a bloody plan_ , I thought now.

After hearing “through the grapevine” that Ellen’s condition had worsened (again, with the ambiguity), Willie had travelled to 1739 to arrange for a delivery. An _illegal_ errand on all accounts, apparently.

This morning, Ellen Fraser would have received a package from a hired messenger, signed simply “WF”. In case of interception, this package contained an assortment of goods meant to quell suspicion and conceal what lay beneath. For buried at the bottom, was Ellen’s saving grace: an antidote, currently unknown to the 18th century but used frequently in the future.

As it happened, my initial assumptions had been correct. Ellen was suffering from a case of malaria, though I was still baffled by its presence in Broch Mordha. Willie’s messenger had left the previous afternoon and, God willing, would have arrived at Lallybroch near dawn. In some respects, the timing was perfect. Any later, and the messenger would have likely perished in the storm. At the same time, I regretted being away from her, unable to administer the medicine myself.

“ _You_ should deliver it, Willie. Your family ought to know.”

“If they’re after me, I won’t lead them Lallybroch,” he had said, still keeping mum on who _they_ were. “The only reason I carried it through myself is because I couldn't trust anybody else to do the job. Always watching, like Big fucking Brother." He looked at me, steady. "It’s illegal, you know. Taking things from one century to another.”

“But you trust the messenger?”

“He’s not a traveler,” Willie explained, “And he doesn’t know what he’s delivering, anyways. Paid him a pretty penny to keep his nose out of it.”        

Throughout our search, Willie had spoken of his departure. He had come to Geillis’ to finalize his return, nothing more, but gave no indication as to her role in the whole affair. Only that he must leave—and soon— before tensions escalated.

“I…need another drink,” I said now, suddenly flustered at the thought. What would happen to Willie if he were to be caught? If _they_ found him?

I walked over to the dressing table, found Jamie’s flask, and took a long gulp. Emboldened once again, I spoke with more confidence. “This stranger, I've reason to take him at his word. He said we needn’t worry about your mother, Jamie. He has it under good authority that she’ll be fine.”

“Under good authority? _Fine_?” Jamie stalked towards me, and swiped the flask from my grasp. With the burst of fury came a touch of sobriety, his words no longer slurred but clipped.  “Just yesterday ye said she might no’ make it another month! And I think ye’ve had enough of _this_ , Sassenach.”

“Well that’s calling the kettle black!”

Jamie eyed the flask, grumbled, and took his own swig. “That as may be,” he conceded, “But I dinna see how a woman can be cured overnight. And how a stranger is to be believed when he’s no’ even met his patient!”

“You said you trusted me,” I reminded him. “And I came to you a stranger, no? You believed _me_ when I said I could cure your mother.”

Jamie shook his head and paced in silence. The quiet stretched on, interrupted only by the low rumble of conversation and occasional cheers beneath us.

Watching him, I recognized the same anger my original promise had received back in August—and the hope underlying it, too. Jamie wanted to believe, regardless of the blind faith it required. He needed to.

“I do trust ye, Claire,” he said some moments later. He drew himself up, chin raised. “You’ve been kind to my Mam, to my family…But I canna think straight. Not now, not tonight. I willna ask you anything more, only…” He ran a hand through his hair, red tufts sticking out like the tongues of flames. “Only promise me that what ye say is true. I couldna live wi’ the guilt if our stay here does anyone harm.”

Thinking of our first encounter, I held out my pinky. “I promise,” I said, and Jamie wrapped his own finger around mine. “Your mother is safe. Regardless if we stay here _or_  if we leave for Lallybroch tonight.”

This seemed to please him, though the windows rattled in protest.      

“ _Ach_. I reckon there’s no hope for it, anyways. I could smell the ice earlier, and I dinna think I could bear another night outdoors, listening to your teeth-chatter.”

I placed my hands on my hips and clucked my tongue.

“But we’ll try tomorrow, Sassenach. And if I should fall ill on the journey, then perhaps your wee friend can cure me too.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “Tomorrow, then.”

I felt guilty for not elaborating on the stranger’s identity, but if Jamie felt too drunk to handle such revelations, who was I to say otherwise? Before the ghost of Frank’s voice could admonish me— _Scruples, Claire!—_ I took back the flask.

“Jamie, you should sit down. You’re a bit, erm, cross-eyed.”

Unburdened by worry, what steadiness Jamie'd had was on the brink of collapse.

He laughed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Aye, there’s two of you, Sassenach.”

“What luck! We should all be so fortunate.”

“I’ll remember to thank God for the extra blessing tonight.”

Though meant as a joke, the statement came out surprisingly genuine. Jamie seemed as taken aback by it as I, and we both leapt apart, looking everywhere but at each other. He lost himself in the pattern of his kilt. Meanwhile, my examination of the floorboards —a study that proved worrisome; there was a peculiar, dark stain by the hearth—was interrupted by a piercing screech.

“ _Iasg mò do bhriogais!_ Ye canna sneak up on me like that, Dalhousie,” Jamie cried. “Ye foolish beastie.”

I looked up to find Jamie in the throes of a violent mating dance. A ball of grey fur scampered between his legs but not before one foot fell on its tail.

“ _Dalhousie_?” I asked once the commotion had calmed.

Now sitting on the bed, and the cat—Dalhousie, apparently, poor thing—seeking refuge underneath it, Jamie nodded.

“Aye, Dalhousie. Mr. Begbie said as his name was Cheetie, and I didna think that verra clever.”

“So you named him Dalhousie instead?” I replied. “That’s not a name! That’s – that’s a sneeze!”

“I’ve heard ye sneeze, Sassenach,” Jamie grinned, “and it doesna sound like ‘Dalhousie’. More like a dying coo if ye ask me.”

“I didn’t ask, actually, but I do find the comparison rather ironic.” Jamie looked at me, confused. “ _You_ look a bit like ‘a coo’, yourself.” I motioned towards his hair, the copper waves still a messy nest atop his head. Now considerably drunker for the additional swigs of whisky, they seemed to radiate an aura of warm light, and I flitted towards him like a moth.

Flitted, of course, was being too kind. My zig-zagged walk to the bed was like the strut of a one-legged ostrich.

“Well, at least I fair better than you. ‘You, wi’ the hairs of Medusa and the eyes of a carrion’!”

“Quoting Arthur Duncan, are we now? Surely you can be more imaginative than that old sod.” I paused, trying to think of another suitable retort, but the words came out in a rush of hiccups.

Amused by my struggle, Jamie craned his neck for a better view of my face. Our eyes met, and we both broke into wide, matching smiles.

“Yer _well_ pissed, Sassenach.”

“And you’re not?”

Jamie chuckled, and again, the freeing effects of whisky made him generous. He seemed younger, wistful almost, when he spoke.

“Mr. Duncan doesna have the right of it. Yer hair is a wild thing, but isna Medusa’s. It’s…well, it’s a bit like a burn, aye? The way the water dances over it, dark at the bottom and silver in the sun.”

I basked in his tenderness, nestled in the curve of his lips. “You’re quite the poet when you’re drunk.”

“Sassenach,” he began softly. “Claire. _Mo nigh_ — _Ach_ , nevermind.”

“No, tell me.” My body seemed to move of its own volition, not just drawn by the glowing halo, but by every other inch of him too. I nudged forwards, suddenly craving closeness.

“Another time, maybe,” he said. “I did mean to thank ye though, Sassenach. I promised you I would, once. I dinna ken the details of it, of course, but whether or no’ yer responsible for my Mam’s recovery, it couldna have happened wi’out you.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said. At this point, my fingers had twined through his, the heat of the room now trapped between our skins. “What are a few frozen toes and a prison sentence, anyways? I care about your mother, Jamie. I’ll do whatever I can to help her.”

Jamie’s gaze turned to our hands as though he, too, was baffled by the magnetism that had brought them together. The easiness, the _rightness_ of our contact.

“I care about you, too,” I added as he leaned closer. Overwhelmed and self-conscious, I swallowed audibly. “Um, you—you’re really close to me right now, Jamie.”

“Mmm,” he said, obviously distracted. I giggled nervously, grown girlish under the intensity of his stare.

“If I turned my head, we’d practically be kissing.”

“Aye, we would.”

“But we’re drunk.”

“Yer powers of observation are verra impressive, Sassenach.”

“Kissing would be…a bad thing. Because we’re drunk.”

“A verra bad thing.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“But…perhaps we wouldn’t remember it in the morning.” I squeaked, breath hitching at our increasing proximity.

“Claire,” Jamie said at last, a smile in his voice, “d’ye _want_ me to kiss you?”

I slapped my knee in outrage, but I knew the fire in my cheeks betrayed me.

“That’s—why, that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”

“You were the one who brought up kissing.”

“I was merely…” I narrowed my eyes, grasping for a foothold as my mind swirled. Two specters stood on my shoulder, each presenting opposing arguments in my ear ( _Do it; don’t do it_ ). “Are you trying to take advantage of me, James Fraser?”

“You think I would— _Christ_ , woman!” he cried and tore himself away. The cat hissed for the disturbance, skittering out from beneath the bed to the other side of the room. Two glowing orbs shined from the darkness, watching me. Daring me.

_Damn you, Dalhousie._

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” I whispered eventually. “I think…Well actually, I think I would like it if you did. If you…took advantage of me.”

Jamie whipped around, eyes wide.

“I’ll do no such thing if ye keep calling it that.”

Just as I stood, he stepped forwards, the pair of us meeting halfway.

“What I mean to say is that I _want_ you to kiss me, Jamie.”

“But we’re drunk,” he said.

“Which is a bad thing.”

“A verra bad thing, indeed.”

“But perhaps we won’t remember it in the morning…”

“Sassenach,” Jamie said, pulling me flush against him, “This isna something I could forget.”

He pressed his lips to mine, and I welcomed him, ready and hungry. There was no awkwardness—none of the teeth-clangs or spit of first kisses—but a sense of certainty, tongues dancing a routine they had memorized without our knowing. With both hands resting firmly on my buttocks, Jamie lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around his torso. He walked slowly, still clumsy from the drink, and carried me back to bed. Clinging tightly to his body, I ran my hands through his hair, and he pulled me onto his lap.

“Is this your way of thanking me?” I asked into his mouth. He said nothing, only sucked at my bottom lip until I moaned. “Because I think…”

“You think a lot, Sassenach.”

“I just think you should thank me more often.”

Jamie moved to nip at my earlobe while I fumbled with his shirt. I moaned a second time, forgetting the paper-thin walls, the company just below.

“Sassenach,” he breathed a moment later, pecking his way back to my lips. “You may sound like coo when ye sneeze, but ye sound like Heaven when ye make that noise.” I laughed and used my legs to crush him against me.

“Do it again,” he plead.

I complied, louder this time, and it was all the encouragement he needed to start yanking at my laces. They were tied tightly but no match for his fingers, and he made surprisingly quick work of them. With the loosening of my stays, I felt myself expand, fuller and buoyed by the heat of him. When his hand touched the slope of my breast, we both sighed, the skin-to-skin contact like cool air in a burning room.

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t, hands pawing at the thick layers of fabric between us. His own abdomen was bare, reassuringly solid.

“ _Ah Dhia_ , what do ye look like under all these clothes?”

“Please…find out.” Jamie took my consent into his mouth before fingers and roving lips went lower. I palmed the front of his pants, feeling the promise they concealed; rubbed his hardness up and down.

“What do _you_ look like without these trousers?”

Jamie groaned, swung me around, and pushed me to the mattress. I lay sprawled in front of him. In the candlelight, the pale flesh of my upper body glowed like—

“Milk and honey,” Jamie sighed, before throwing himself on top of me.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. From behind it, came Mr. Begbie’s voice—embarrassed, having obviously heard the commotion in our room. I was only vaguely aware of the flask clattering to the floor, the creaking bed and heavy panting.

“Mistress Beauchamp?” Begbie called. Thinking silence would deter him, I gave no reply, but the innkeeper was persistent and called again. The doorknob’s rattle was like a scalding stovetop, and we quickly sprang from our frenzy of hands, mouths, and legs. Jamie adjusted his trousers while I corrected my own twisted and wrinkled garments. Despite our almost-discovery, we glowed like two school children with a delightful secret.

“Yes, Mr. Begbie?” I answered between half-stifled giggles. “What is it?”

“There’s a man downstairs for ye, mam. Says as he needs to speak wi’ ye. Urgent business.”

I had no clock by which to tell the time, but the height of the moon indicated it was well into the night. _Urgent, indeed._ Absently, I hoped the visitor wasn’t Arthur Duncan, come to seek his revenge – or worse, Willie wanting protection. I would have little to offer either man now that my mind had been properly turned on its head.

I shot Jamie a quizzical look, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll be there in a second, Mr. Begbie!” I yelled, and to Jamie, I whispered, “Help me with the laces?”

Showing the same dexterity he’d used to untie them, Jamie bound me up again. The finished job was by no means perfect—far from it, actually—but I could sense Begbie’s impatience and knew now was not the time. Impropriety, I thought, was excusable at an hour like this.

“D’ye want me to come wi’ ye, Sassenach?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Something to do with medicine, I’d wager. One of the crofters’ wives mentioned an ill daughter.” I smoothed down the front of my dress and turned to Jamie. “Do I look okay?”

“You look like a cat who just ate a mouse.”

“You’re hardly a mouse, Jamie.” My eyes dropped lower, and I peeked up from my lashes. “You’re much larger.”

Another Fraser wink—that adorable twitch of the eye—and my knees nearly buckled. He opened the door and waved me into the corridor.

I was pleased to see Mr. Begbie had retreated rather than stand by, ears tuned to our conversation. I took the stairs slowly, wanting to savor the lingering sensation of our touches.

“When ye get back, Sassenach, I wouldna mind being trapped in your paws again.”

“Might get more than that,” I teased from the first floor landing. “My claws are sharp.”

“Not too sharp, I hope, madam,” a new voice said. “I’m afraid the weather already has me at a disadvantage.”

I jumped. Meaning to clear my vision, I blinked twice, but the man in front of me did not vanish. I blinked a third time, then a fourth and fifth, but he remained—as horrifyingly, bewilderingly, and damnably the same.

No.

Surely not.

Definitely not.

He couldn’t be…

It was _more_ than unlikely. It was impossible.

And yet, everything was just as I remembered: the same eyes, the same nose. The same hairline, just beginning to recede above the high forehead. The hands welcoming me—as fine and unblemished as a woman’s— that had once led me down a church aisle. Had once laid claim to the places still tingling from Jamie’s lips.

Frank.

Frank smiling.

Frank bowing.

Frank saying, “Take a seat, madam. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

_Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ._

My mouth hung open, but I lacked the presence of mind to answer his questions ( _Have come at a bad time, madam? What is your name, madam?_ ). I noticed only the man’s tongue, flicking in and out, and the predatory tensing of his jaw. Though Frank’s eyes stared back at me, they held a sinister shadow I had not seen before. And his hair, though the same shade of brown covering the identically-shaped skull, was much longer than my husband’s. In fact, it did not suit him.

“Madam? Are you all right?” When I failed to reply, the man dismissed my silence with a wave. “Fortunately, your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Beauchamp. Arrived only hours ago, and you’ve caused quite a stir among the folks of Cranesmuir.”

“Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Oh, do forgive me. In my excitement at finding you here, I have forgotten my manners. Allow me to introduce myself...My name is Jonathan Wolverton Randall, officer of His Majesty’s eighth dragoons – at your service.”

My heart stopped. _Randall?_

“Why, how marvelous!” The woman I had spotted earlier had set aside her knitting, enthralled by the presence of this well-kept, uniformed man. Her adoration was not shared by the chess players who, at the announcement of Randall's station, bristled quite visibly. I thought I saw a flash of steel beneath their table, weapons poised for destruction at a moment’s notice.

“I hear as war may come to Austria. Is that true, Officer?” the woman asked.

“The succession of the Austrian throne is of considerable interest. But there is no cause for worry, madam. Peace will remain while the Holy Roman Emperor lives.”

“But are ye here on behalf of the king? Because if ye are, I’ve a matter I would like to…”

Randall cut her off. “My business is something of that nature, yes. But it involves Mrs. Beauchcamp here.”

Like Mr. Jones and his companion, there was something about him I did not trust. But what, exactly? Was my wariness due to the way he looked at me—he, the cat, and me, in an ironic twist of fate, the mouse?  Or was it simply that he wore Frank’s face and name so poorly; the shallow performance of an amateur actor?

The weight of the past hour finally settled on my shoulders, and a guilty lump formed in my throat. I had to don my own mask to speak evenly.

“I’m flattered by your visit, sir, but I know nothing that would be of help to his His Majesty.”

The man, the dragoon— _Officer Randall,_ not Frank—seated himself and leaned back in his chair. Again, his tongue poked out between thin lips, though now it cracked like a lash.

“Now that,” he said, “I do find hard to believe.”


End file.
